#i had put this in my drafts a while ago and now it hits differently after the cancellation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strwbmei · 6 months

Text

Halloween Special.

summary: "accidentally" summoning a demon turns into a heavenly experience

contains: afab reader, porn with plot, soft sex, sub!reader, succubus!elysia, a bit of fluff, somnophilia (?), soft dom!elysia, monsterfucking, virgin!reader, pet names,

pairing(s): elysia x reader

a/n: happy birthday to my wife!!! found this draft on my old account and it seemed perfect since it's Halloween season and it's also Elysia's birthday, so I decided to finish it

A few days ago, your professor had assigned your class to write an essay on any topic; and demons happened to pique your interest.

Long story short— the book you bought for research happened to include a guide on summoning these demons. Well, you called it a guide, but it was more of a ritual if you were being honest.

Of course, not that you ever thought of using it.

You flipped through the pages, skimming along the images and descriptions. Once you saw the word 'succubus', you had to do a double take. The mere thought of a beautiful succubus softly dominating you in bed and guiding you through everything was enough to make your cheeks flare up as red as a tomato...

Okay. You're a horny college student— but you aren't a stupid one. Sex demon or regular demon, you don't need the presence of either in your already hectic life.

You put the book away, not giving it much thought. The deadline is 3 weeks away, and you're tired. Research can wait. For now, you'd try to get some much needed sleep.

As hard as you tried to fall asleep, you just.. couldn't. It felt as if the book was calling out to you; and there was a name echoing throughout your mind— Elysia. A name so beautiful, yet it cursed you with sleeplessness and senseless yearning.

Goddammit.

You sighed as you begrudgingly followed the thankfully detailed instructions on the book. Luckily, the ritual for summoning succubi was fairly simple compared to the others. It can't be helped— you thought.

You were just taking a more hands-on approach for research purposes. Yeah. You definitely didn't want to meet a hot succubus lady. That would be absolutely preposterous.

NSFW below the cut !

A few minutes passed. Nothing. Maybe you did something wrong? No, you're sure you followed the instructions to the tee.

Fifteen minutes now. Still nothing.

You sigh, finally giving up. It was dumb to believe the guide would work, and that demons even existed in the first place. It did at least manage to get rid of the weird name that was stuck in your head, so there's that.

Not even bothering to turn off the lights, you yawn as you lay down in bed. You couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment nipping at you as you drift off to sleep.

However, all of it disappears when you awake to the sound of birds tweeting cheerfully and the warmth of the sunlight shining through the windows. Was it just you, or did the world seem much more colorful? Amazingly, you slept like a log. Even though you just woke up, you already felt energized and refreshed and-

Who is that lady at the foot of your bed?

You tried to scream, but it came out as a choked gasp.

The lady had long pink hair tied into a low ponytail, elven ears that twitched every once in a while, and a beautiful face that lit up once she saw you open your eyes. "⊓□⦝⦝⟃ >⊓□⟔□, ⸅⟔□>>⋖ ꓶ｢⟔⦝!"

Her voice was distorted and monstrous, yet at the same time akin to a soothing lullaby. You tilt your head in confusion, still half asleep. She let her mouth hang open for a bit, closing it as it formed into a small smile. She clears her throat. "Good morning, pretty girl! Slept well?"

You simply stared at her in awe as you nodded absentmindedly. What is happening? Who is this gorgeous beauty and why is she in your room?

A realization hits you as you look down and see the bat-like wings that went from the small of her back and wrapped around the front of her thighs along with the skimpy outfit she's wearing; a flush of red creeping up your cheeks at the same time.

Oh.

"I forgot humans used a different language these days.." She mutters to herself, smiling widely as she observes your every reaction. "I'm Elysia, the succubus you summoned!" Elysia exclaimed cheerfully, clasping her hands together.

She eyed you up and down, licking her lips as she crawled over to you. "What a treat we have here.." now that you're a bit, y'know, awake— you have the time to process how sweet Elysia's voice is to your ears.

Everything about her bewitched you. From her luscious locks of pink hair, her striking blue eyes that looked upon you with their loving gaze, to her plump lips that seemed perfect for kissing— amongst... many other things.

Elysia; meaning perfection, beauty, and paradise— the woman in front of you did not fit the name, for the name was made for her instead. Elysia was paradise personified.

Her laugh, similar to a melodious choir, brought you back to reality. "If you keep staring at me like that.. even I'll get embarrassed~" The warmth of her touch brings you to realize how close Elysia is to you, and the situation you're in. The situation you're about to be in.

You sat up immediately. "Wait, this is a misunderstand-" you gulp as Elysia places a finger on your lips, looking at you with pleading eyes.

"You're saying you don't want to have sex with me?"

Okay. She got you there.

Elysia takes your silence as a yes, giggling as she kisses your forehead softly. "You're so cute, I could just gobble you up!" She spoke as if she were talking to a puppy, yet her eyes had an underlying glint of lust.

Unbeknownst to you, you were the first to summon Elysia for, more or less, 50,000 years. The succubus had a lot of pent-up sexual frustration, and you were the unfortunate soul that had to take accountability for it.

"Maybe I'll do just that... What do you say, beautiful?" She tucks your hair behind your ears, her gaze warm and reassuring. Elysia was horny, but she placed your comfort first and foremost.

Did she just call you beautiful? More importantly, did she just say that she wanted to eat you out? You prayed that you were able to keep a straight face in the few moments that passed; that you were able to hold back the elated grin that threatened to curl on your lips.

You were thrilled. Exhilarated, even. Whether you wanted Elysia to know that or not, the shade of red tinting your cheeks and the way you rubbed your thighs together was enough to tell her the truth. "I'd.. love that."

Elysia wasted no time in removing your clothes, leaving a trail of kisses on your bare skin as she went. They were sloppy and hungry; yet at the same time assuring and tender. She took her time to appreciate the work of art that was your body. Her touch wandered all over you— from your shoulders, to your arms, to the small of your back. "You're so pretty like this."

Though it was part of Elysia's job as a succubus to tell her clients what they wanted to hear, she genuinely meant every word. The woman wanted you to know that, and she'd gladly show you with her actions.

She made her way down to your thighs, gently spreading your legs apart as she lowered herself to meet your glistening cunt. You sigh shakily when her warm breath teases your entrance.

"Are you nervous?" Elysia smiled up at you. "No, it's just- this is my first time, so..." You trailed off, eyes darting side to side to keep from making eye contact.

She giggled at your reaction, planting a soft kiss to your clit; the gesture making your breath hitch. "Just relax, let me take care of you." She reassured you. With the knowledge that she was taking your first time, Elysia was even more determined to make you feel good.

"Besides, I don't mind teaching a cutie like you how to please a woman." She winked before shallowly thrusting her tongue into your folds; experimentally dragging the wet muscle along your walls and eliciting a few moans from you.

Elysia's eyes attentively observed each and every reaction— whether it be the way your head fell back whenever her nose rubbed against your clit or the way you moaned a little louder when her tongue pressed flat against a specific spot.

"Fuck.." You hissed under your breath, knuckles turning pale from how hard you were gripping the sheets. It seems you aren't the only one enjoying this; you could feel Elysia's movements grow hungrier, slender hands spreading your thighs apart even more.

Your other hand pushed her head down as you muttered apologies in between moans. She didn't seem to mind; only working harder to please you as her thumb reached to play with your clit. "A-ah... Elysia..!"

Even with your eyes screwed shut with pleasure, you can feel her smile against your cunt. "Mm... You sound so pretty moaning my name." She groans, growing hungrier and more relentless in its pace. She just can't control herself; can't help wanting to taste you.

Her eyes looked up at you with lust and need as you bucked your hips to meet her tongue, making a mess of her face as you came all over it. Elysia continues tongue-fucking you throughout your orgasm, helping you ride out your high.

After Elysia deems that she has prolonged your orgasm to its limit, she crawls over to your exhausted body. "Is this a dream?" You pant out between breaths, eyes still shut as beads of sweat rolled down your forehead.

She giggled at your question. "If it was," You opened your eyes to find the woman giving you a warm smile; gaze as reassuring and comforting as ever. "would you want to wake up?"

"..."

"Then, just let me make you feel good." Elysia's smile transformed into a grin, eyes on either side of your thighs as she straddled your lap. She isn't quite done with you just yet.

It seems that you were, though.

You groan as you're woken up by that stupid, stupid alarm that just had to ring when you were getting to the good part. Ugh.

How were you supposed to focus on studying for the whole day after... whatever that was? Why did you summon her in the first place?

Can... you summon her again?

╰┈➤ taglist ; @teethoftheeditor , @roninraccoon , @hedgehog666 , @dukemira , @faerierambles , @the-night-owl-blr

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xmortuarykittyx · 6 months

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Ever Locked

Part 3: With Your Ghost

Part 2: On the Rocks

pairing: Older!Leon Kennedy × Ex!Coroner's Assistant Reader

warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, this chapter is more of your pov with how Leon’s affected your psyche. No real warnings for this one, a slow but telling chapter <3

extras: this fic will also be slow and longer, we're telling an entire story, i want it to be detailed with Reader and Leon as well as introducing Marina and Ryan. I hope you guys enjoy i have so so so many ideas and rough drafts already written. next part should be out Sunday!

Blue that's what I remembered the most about Leon Kennedy, the nights sleep evaded me. The days in which every stranger somehow had the same ocean eyes, same chubby cheeks and boyish face. How someone totally unrecognizable, morphed into a version of the man that I both loved and despised. Don't get me wrong, Leon is a bastard- a no-good, psychotic, lunatic, who deserves to be behind bars for what he's put me through. Yet, I find myself thinking about how it would've played out... had that night never happened. Had it all simply been a bad dream in itself, would we have children by now, be married? Would he still be an officer, and I, a coroner's assistant... would we have left Raccoon City together or would we have died in the bombing?

The clink of the glass brought my vision back. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were thinking about me.", Ryan's hands cupped around mine, his fingers laced between mine, pressed to the glass in my palm. "But your brows are so furrowed i think you'll gain permanent lines.", his head appeared in my line of vision, black brows raised as his smile was wide. That was Ryan, always so sweet and caring, always the hero and the calm man. He was everything and more, my heart clenched in my chest as his thumb pad brushed the area between my brows. His digit working at the tense muscle as i felt a deep sigh leave my lips.

"He's not going to bother you. Not while i'm here, i can call some guys from the office. We can start checking into him and get a restraining order in place-", he spoke as if he already planned it in his head and I couldn't complain. Except, for the fact, that part of me saw him, the sweet shy rookie, in those heavy blue eyes. That the years didn't change him and that he was still the shy boy who came into my office to wait on a file all that time ago. That, maybe, just maybe... it had all been a nightmare, I got them more often than not, these days. The scar on my temple reminds me daily that he wasn't a dream, that i was in the claws of some dangerous, predatory wolf cramped into a small sheep's skin.

"Would that be okay?", his words hit the side of my cheek, breath lingering with the scent of mint, probably from the ones he keeps in his front pocket. Another thing to draw the once blonde back into my mind. "Yeah.", it doesn't sound like me, a squeak from between my lips that doesn't sound confident in the slightest. "Yeah... that would be okay.", a soft nod to reassure him with my words. His eyes shine in an uncertain light, lips twitching with unspoken questions. It wasn't normal for me to drink anymore, I wanted to be in control of my body, never so vulnerable at the hands of another again, not even Ryan, despite how sweet he is, how caring and protective.

I couldn't do it, be broken down again. Not by someone so close, a stranger's betrayal is expected, it doesn't hurt like a loved one's betrayal. The biggest betrayal of love, what a sick thing, love itself. We can't choose who our love goes to, or if it will ever be reciprocated. I love Ryan, I love the safety blanket he surrounds me in, the love he gives back to me... but Leon's "love" felt different. It was warm but in a way that was far too hot that it burnt, as if the heat within him came up to kiss my skin, leaving burning welts in its path. A path trailed in love and destruction, his heaviness was a weight so unmovable by my own strength. Ryan gives me the option to remove the heavy weighted blanket of his love, taking a breath for a moment before I cover myself back up in his presence.

A kiss, so soft and tender to the crown of my head, his soft, pouty lips that touched the skin of my head with the most caring feeling. I could cry, my eyes burning as the pin pricks of a sob wailing down. "I love you, I have to handle this thing for work. I'll just be in my office, okay? Call out to me for anything.", he was so fucking sweet, like an ice cream cone that was begging for my tongue to swipe across. "Of course, have fun.", the small smirk tugged at my lips, an invisible string pulling the shape together as I gave a sigh laugh. "Oh, it's going to be a joy~", his hand waving as he walked into the office room.

His steps pattering against the floor, until the door clicks and I feel the weight of the world fall back onto my shoulders. The thick feeling in my throat coming back as I swallow down another mouthful of the whiskey, the one he had before him in the bar. I didn't see the appeal, the more expensive stuff was much better.. then again, Leon was never very flashy. He didn't care about things like that. He was not what i thought he was, he was so different. A shy man and a psycho all in one, a sweet, precious lamb, begging for a hand to pet its head, then a raging wolf, ready to penetrate its prey with the sharp, ravenous teeth. I was the prey. I know that now, it never left my mind the way it felt to hear the sickening thud of my head against the floor, to hear the tile shatter under the amount of force that was behind the hit.

A bit of alcohol threatened to come up, splashing the back of my throat with an angry sizzle. My phone vibrates off the table, the sound grating against my already tense mind. "Hey are you okay? You left so quick after Ryan came. What happened?"- Marina, i hadn't told her anything simply telling her to call Charlie and get him to find someone to cover my shift, mascara and eyeliner coating my cheeks as it did now, Ryan guiding me past her. "I know you're reading this. The guy at the bar asked me for your number. I didn't give it to him, just so you know. I know there's something you're hiding, but it's okay, you'll tell me when you're ready. Right?", I don't think I'd ever be ready to fill her in on what happened when I was 20, the years after that trying to calm myself and remind myself there's no flesh eating monsters after me, no craze-stricken man trying to kidnap me. "Right.", It was quick and to the point, I didn't want to linger on this anymore. I wanted to face him, then again, i didn't. What would i say? I saw him and started to cry, flash backs and memories, bittersweet to the mind's taste.

The silence was deafening once the first thunder rolled through, causing the serene atmosphere to feel a little heavier. I didn't truly mind, rain was my favorite, and a constant in this town. It seems i couldn't get far from a rainy town. The glass between my fingers, slowly lowering in volume as the rim pressed to my lips. Against my willingness to forget, I wonder if he's out in the rain, if he's still drinking at the bar or shacked up in some hotel room? I'm angry to try and think about him anymore, it was probably a fluke- he wouldn't come 3k miles just to find me, right? 7 years is a long time, he probably found someone else while he was away. I was away.

It's not that I find myself forgiving, because I don't, nor will I forgive him. I fought myself through the "you should be grateful you were captive for very long."'s, the "others have been kidnapped and died, you survived."'s and most important, the one i still let linger. "it's not as bad as you say, you just keep making it worse for yourself."'s... those linger in the hollow of my chest and come out on bad days, like today. It's like, I'm haunted by someone who still lives. He's alive, he's here, in Seattle. He's alive, he's been alive this entire time and he's okay... physically- he's okay. Some of my questions were angered then, some things gaining closure but the back of my mind thinks it's not a coincidence, no matter how much i try to fight back those feelings. It has to be, he can't- the glass hits the table as the first round of sobs fall from my lips.

Arms covering my face, muffling the cries. It feels like I'm stuck in a deadly dance with a man who couldn't be nearly as horrific as I remember. I remember, but it was so quick, back then it felt slow... now i struggle to remember things. The red underwear, my red underwear... I thought about it while I was sitting in his home, the day he went to work. Those were mine. They had to be, his fucking "They're mine.", excuse was a load of bullshit. Just like everything else he ever said, leaving that morning to get breakfast... while he was doing, God knows, what to Mrs. Jones. This dance was deadly, like we're dancing apart, destined to eventually bump into each other and intertwine. Maybe, tonight was that bump, that intertwining moment that sealed our inevitable meeting again. He looked so different, if he hadn't had looked up, if he just fucking kept drinking away, i wouldn't have realized, i could continue in this fantasy life, i'd created. The life, I love, Ryan, Marina, Charlie, our boss who likes to add a little to our checks for the bullshit we put up with. My apartment, it was so much nicer than the one from before, I don't miss that life i had before. I miss Rebecca, if only i knew if she survived. I think that part of me died that night, I died the night that Raccoon City went under and the man who loved me was whisked away into a government agency. It was a sorrowful moment, but it was destined for me. I wouldn't change it. As selfish as it is, I wouldn't change it. I'm a horrible person, it's horribly selfish and heartless but I can't find a single bit of regret for that day. I'd be doing, God knows, for a man who was willing to kill for me, it's so romantic in the books and movies, but to know i slept next to someone who didn't see how wrong it was to kill an elderly woman? The thoughts made me feel sick, imagining what he probably did, how he went about it. Rebecca never got the change to tell me how she went out, Leon definitely wasn't going to tell me.

I must've missed the door steps echoing in the thunder filled apartment. Probably missed the door opening too, couldn't hear over my sobs as hands found their way around my waist, the stool slightly rocking as his weight pressed behind me. A shushing sound came from his lips, his hand traveling up the valley between my breast, palm caressing my jaw. His fingers are so warm, against the cold air that hit my tears. He was a gentle giant, something Leon never truly was... was it all a facade? something to get me closer, a trap? The thought sends another wracking sob through my chest, lungs expanding under his arm. "It's okay, now, my sweet girl. I'm here, you're safe and nothing's going to tear you away from me.", his words were calming, but nothing had a name, Leon Scott Kennedy and I knew deep down, now that the bunny was in the wolf's sight... the game had only just begun.

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ahundredtimesover · 2 years

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Missing our plm couple extra today. Wonder what they’re doing 🫶🏼

I’ve had this on my drafts for a while and decided to finish it with the image of long-haired and glasses JK in mind. It sort of sets up the stage for the The Fight as well. I hope you enjoy 🥰

Title: Please Love Me Bonus 06 - I tell you everything.

WC: 4,421

Tags/Warnings: suggestive

Series Masterlist

Five minutes. Jungkook’s phone pings.

No 10.

Or maybe 15 sorry hun I’m still packing up but also it’s the last day of class so everyone’s chatting it up oh you can come in if you want! Another ping.

Jungkook laughs at your run-on sentences and knows you’ll be cringing at them later. But he’s also imagining you looking a little stressed, trying to multitask between fixing your tools and saying your goodbyes to your classmates.

He turns off the engine and exits the car. It’s when he gets another message - Kook, can you come? I need help with my things 🥺 - that he jogs the block to the art studio and makes a left to the hallway where your class is.

He looks around, in awe of how the decor at the west wing quickly changes. In the half year that you’ve been enrolled in your drawing class, he’s visited you a few times and each time, the art pieces hanging on the wall have been different. He’d spied a few of yours, too, and he’d spent too much time just admiring your work and imagining what inspired you or what you were thinking, something he always asked you about later on.

But one other thing he likes to do when he picks you up is peek through the half-wall window and not-so-creepily watch you work on your piece - focused eyes surrounded by your soft features, with only a look of determination mixed with pure passion for the craft. You did say you’ve come to love drawing after all.

It’s through his visits that your classmates have come to know him, too - that first time, one asked if he was the nude art model and another yelled they wished he was. Jungkook didn’t miss your slightly embarrassed and flushed face when you finally claimed him as your husband. The room melted into a puddle, with oohs and ahhs reverberating through the walls when he greeted you with a forehead kiss and picked up your things as he often does.

Jungkook does all those again today. He sees one of your pieces and imagines what you were thinking of as you painted the sky green, then he turns to the room where the sound of applause catches his attention. But then his smile - the one he’s been sporting since this afternoon when he got to free up his evening so he could attend your event with you tonight - fades, his eyebrows furrowing and a pout forming on his face.

He’s familiarized himself with all your classmates and colleagues, and that half-naked man with firm pectorals and large biceps and chiseled jaw and sharp nose is definitely not one of them.

Back inside, you’re busy putting away all your pencils giggling at the light banter between your classmates. You’d asked Jungkook to help you with some of your things and you know he’s probably waiting outside.

Before your gaze wanders outside, you look around the room and meet deep-set, hazelnut eyes - intense and paralyzing as they bore into you. You’re quite surprised, and as you zip up your bag, you accidentally hit your easel. You shut your eyes as reflex, ready for it to make that sound as it hits the floor.

But it doesn’t.

“You nervous or something?”

The man’s voice is deep. It’s familiar, and as you look up, you know why it is.

He’s putting in place the easel that you almost knocked over. He’s got a smirk on, and you wonder if your flushed form has anything to do with it. You didn’t really expect that the man whose backside you were drawing just minutes ago would be speaking to you. The models for your nude drawing class don’t exactly interact with the artists - it’s kind of weird to do that when strangers have basically seen every part of you.

But he’s here in front of you with a twinkle in his eyes that have now softened, and you’re only able to shake your head. Sure, he's handsome, but he’s also still half-naked - you’re not exactly sure how to process that outside of your drawing bubble.

“You’re rushing, then?” He asks.

“Uh, sort of?” You chuckle, relaxing a little as you try to focus on just his face.

“That’s a shame. I heard that Mrs. Yang’s treating your class to dinner and she invited me. I was really hoping I’d see you there,” he replies.

“Oh? I’ve got an event tonight. Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Sort of,” he chuckles now. “I’ve modeled for some of her other classes and no one draws me quite like you do. They seem so real and so intimate. Mrs. Yang said I could personally ask you if I could bring home your drawings of me. I like how you’re able to capture the—”

He’s cut off by the sound of a throat clearing and Jungkook turning you towards him with a deep kiss on your lips, his hand gripping your waist tightly as he lingers on your skin.

“Hey, babe,” he says.

“Kook,” you blink up at him, surprised again by the desperation in his actions. “Hi,” you recover, smiling at his presence despite the scowl on his face.

“You ready to go?” He sounds in a hurry, uninterested.

“Yeah, I was just talking to Samuel. He was asking for my drawings of him.”

“Is he now?” Jungkook arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms. He looks up and down the man in question who still has a smirk on his face.

“I am,” Samuel replies, assessing your husband from head to toe just the same. “___ draws me so beautifully. Her pieces make the hours-long process of posing nude all worth it. She’s got an amazing eye, among other things.”

If you didn’t really care much for him earlier, now, you don’t care much for him at all. You want to tell him off for how shameless he’s being, but the selfish and silly part of you wants to know how your husband would react and well, follow up that sudden kiss he gave you to get your attention.

“She does,” Jungkook replies. “She’s obviously talented but she’s also had some practice. I mean, I’m her muse when it comes to this… nude drawing thing and yeah, I know all about posing for so long being worth it.”

Jungkook gives you a naughty smile and you know exactly what he’s thinking about. “It’s quite the gift when you’re married to an artist, you know?”

“Ah, you’re married, I see,” Samuel hums, glancing at your left hand that’s now sporting the ring that you remove every time you draw or paint. “That’s good. For both of you. Not for me but yeah, I shouldn’t be surprised,” he turns to you, chuckling now, realizing at how stupid he seemed. “But can I still keep the artwork, if that’s okay and not weird for your husband?”

“Her work, her choice,” Jungkook responds.

“Sure, if it’s as nice as you say it,” you shrug, not minding much. It’s always a compliment when your model reacts that way to your final output. “You can just ask Mrs. Yang for them.”

“It is, I truly mean it,” Samuel smiles more genuinely this time. “And yes, I’ll choose the best one, although that might be difficult. They’re all great.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” you grin, not interested to keep this on. “I’ll get going now. It was a pleasure.”

“It was. I hope to see you around,” he smirks again, and you don’t miss the scowl that graces your husband’s face once more.

You wave goodbye to your classmates and tell them you’ll catch up with them another time. It’s when you exit the building that you turn to Jungkook, his frowned expression turning into a pout.

“What was that, Mr. Jeon?” You giggle.

“What?” He’s defensive, even as he takes your hand and leads you down the street.

“Don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing with that kiss and head-to-toe look and hidden meanings in your words, hmm? Are you threatened?”

You’re teasing, a rarity for you because Jungkook does get quite jealous and you’ve never wanted to push him, but something about him in his work attire, rolled up sleeves with tattoos exposed and all that makes you want to just try. He looks tough like this, especially with his hair that he’s growing out, but the glasses he’s been wearing more frequently just makes him adorable. It’s a kind of sexy that you’ve been enjoying lately.

“Just never seen him before,” he shrugs. “And he was obviously flirting with you. Like, ‘you’ve got a great eye among other things’? What the fuck does that mean?!”

“Yeah, I thought he was just being friendly until that,” you laugh. “He’s modeled just 3 times including today. He’s apparently an artist, too, so he knows a lot about forms and stuff. So that’s kind of nice, being complimented like that.”

“Hmm, probably. You also couldn’t stop looking at him.”

“Hey!” You nudge Jungkook. “It’s only because his body is so overwhelming, you know?”

“And what about mine?” He frowns.

“Perfect - just the way I like it,” you turn towards him, stopping him in his tracks so he could look at you and see the love in your eyes. “You, my dear husband, are the most handsome and sexiest being in this world, with or without clothes, and I absolutely adore every inch of you, every ridge and every dip and every beauty mark and every scar.”

You cup his cheeks and feel them rise to his eyes as he can’t help but smile at your words.

“No need to worry, okay?” You assure. “Classes are over and I’m satisfied with my nude drawing abilities already, especially with the muse I’ve got.” You wink, liking how he blushes. He takes your hand and lovingly kisses it before kissing your forehead.

“Hmm, might want to draw me again soon so that this is the only nude body you’ll remember,” he winks.

“Oh trust me, this is the only nude body I remember,” you respond, resting your palms on his chest.

He takes the opportunity to pull you closer, his warm breath tingling your skin. “Good. I’ll keep reminding you though, maybe tonight? Or right when we get home?” He hums in satisfaction and kisses your lips.

You giggle in his hold. “Kook, we’re in public,” you remind him, as an old woman chuckles as she passes by you both.

“I don’t care,” he huffs.

“I do,” you answer, though your words don’t have a bite in them.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he arches a brow.

“Do I need to?” You tease, tracing his defined pecs underneath his silk polo as you bite your lip.

“Fuck, let’s go.”

You arrive at the grand estate of Mr. Lee that’s right at the edge of the city. It took a while to get here, as you and Jungkook took too much time feeling each other up before you actually got dressed, but it was something you didn’t mind. He gets riled up when he gets jealous, and you’d shyly told him it was quite a turn on. You would’ve passed up on this event if it wasn’t so important to you, and he understood. He promised to continue what you’d both started after, though, and that really got you smiling.

The mansion is buzzing. Clanking sounds of champagne flutes, soft munching of canapés, and laughter and conversations fill the grand room and the hallways nearby. There are many familiar people - and not because you know them from the art world, you know them because of your family and Jungkook’s. Those present in the viewing of Mr. Lee’s private art collection are big names in the business and entertainment industry, after all. But they’re here by personal invitation and their appreciation of art, including you.

It’s a twice a year event, and you’re lucky that one of Mr. Lee’s granddaughters is currently your student in the weekly art class for children that you’ve been teaching for the past few months. Her mother befriended you and was kind enough to invite you tonight, and you couldn’t be happier, especially when Jungkook messaged you earlier that he was able to free up his evening to accompany you here. You’ve been busy with various projects on top of the classes you take and conduct, and you wanted to spend time with your husband, even if half the time you’d be gushing about the pieces anyway, something he said he wouldn’t mind at all.

You find your way to look at a contemporary piece, telling Jungkook about the artist, when someone calls your name. You turn to the side and see a familiar face.

“Chi-won,” you smile. “It’s good to see you here.”

You return the hug that the man gives you and introduce your husband.

“You, too, although I figured you’d be here,” he grins. “You’re why I got invited in the first place. I heard you recommended the tattoo shop to Mr. Lee’s daughter. She came a few weeks ago and found out I collect art, too, and she invited me tonight. So thank you.”

“Ah, that’s wonderful,” you chirp. “She said her friends aren’t into the arts so she gives the invitations to even acquaintances whom she thinks would appreciate it. I’m glad you get to witness this, too. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Jungkook zones out a little once you and your friend start talking about the artists whose works are displayed in the estate. Somehow, art talk is only interesting to him when it’s you who’s talking, so he lets his mind wander a bit until he hears the words that sort of knock him out.

“Loving the tattoo, by the way. It looks really great now that it’s healed,” the man says.

Saying it’s great means he’s looking at it, and looking at it means he’s got his eyes on the colored ink painted on the valley between your breasts. Much as Jungkook adores the low-cut neckline of your wine-colored satin dress, that obviously also means that other people get a peek at it, too. The tattoo is beautiful - it’s his birth flower, after all, and he feels blessed everyday that you got it because of him, and that he gets to marvel at it every single day. He just doesn’t like the thought of others having that opportunity, too.

“Thank you,” you gush. “You’ve got amazing people at the shop, and that’s because of you. I really love it, and so does my husband. Right, Kook?”

You turn to him and Jungkook manages a curt nod and an almost-whisper of “of course.” Is… is he the man who put this on you?

You and Chi-won say your goodbyes as he heads to the other wing, and you turn to Jungkook with his curious look mixed with a tinge of nervousness.

“He’s a tattoo artist at the shop where I got the flower done,” you say, realizing what your statement could imply once Jungkook’s eyes widen.

“Oh! He didn’t tattoo me, Kook. He just owns the shop,” you explain, not wanting your husband to worry that another man got to see your bare chest. Jungkook’s face relaxes and you hear his sigh of relief. “I told you I’d get a woman to do it even if you didn’t ask for it. I don’t exactly want to expose my body to another man, you know?”

“Just me, huh?” Jungkook shyly smiles now.

“Of course, honey. No one else.” You kiss his nose and like how his eyes close and how his features soften at the act.

You both continue the tour around the mansion. There’s an entire area dedicated to all the pieces - paintings, sculptures, mixed media art - and you gush at each one. Somehow Jungkook feels like it’s just you and him in your own little bubble. Even with the people you greet every once in a while, you choose to experience the collection with just him, even if you know he doesn’t understand half of the things you’re explaining - he’s said he likes just hearing the tone of your voice and the way your eyes crinkle when you talk about the things that make you happy.

Unfortunately, he has to burst that, as he takes an important work call and excuses himself. It takes 15 minutes but when he returns, there you are with yet another man gushing over you, it seems like, as the tall man with incredibly strong features and perfect hair shows you photos from his phone and laughs along with you.

Jungkook stands there, not wanting to burst the bubble you have with another person who gets you, in that sense - someone who gets your art, your world, your passion, and who gets to respond to you with more than just “ah, that’s cool,” the way he does. So he lets you have your moment, your space. He’ll step in in a while, he tells himself.

“Why is it that every time I see you in one of these things, you’ve always got that look on your face as you watch your wife socialize with another man from afar?”

Jungkook knows the voice before he even turns to the side and finds Kim Namjoon, your brother’s close friend and a staple in these events as an art collector himself. He’s become familiar to Jungkook, too, finding him during the times when he’s stuck on his spot as he chooses to observe you from afar. Because the man’s right - this happens more frequently than Jungkook likes to admit.

“It comes with marrying a talented and beautiful woman, I guess,” Jungkook chuckles. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, it’s her world and she stands out,” Namjoon responds.

“She stands out anywhere, actually, with anyone,” Jungkook responds, letting the thought settle in before he continues. “The man’s this big shot executive and a single dad. His 5-year old is in her art class and the kid adores her so I don’t blame the guy for admiring my wife. She’s great with kids.”

“Is it really admiration, though? Looks like he’s just showing off his son to her,” Namjoon observes, as the man holds up his phone to show you various photos to both of your delight. You’re laughing along with the man, smiling as he shows more.

“Yeah? I mean, look at the way he looks at her,” Jungkook responds.

He should be used to it by now. You have a comforting charm about you, and if he wasn’t a stuck up teenager, he would’ve realized that very early on. But no; he’d shut you out and only got to see just how good it is to be around you once he’d married you.

Your students in art class are a testament to that - it’s no wonder you were asked to add another schedule because the kids enjoy your sessions that much. Their parents are a testament to that as well. Even strangers are. But it hits differently, as he sees how the man softly watches you laugh and coo at his own son. There’s a certain glow on your face when it comes to children - Jungkook won’t blame anyone for finding that beautiful.

“Hmm, it’s nothing compared to the way she looks at you, though,” Namjoon says. “You’d be laughing or something, or socializing when you’re in your world, and she’d be looking at you with the brightest stars in her eyes.”

Jungkook looks at the older man with questioning eyes.

“I’ve been to some of your family’s galas, Jungkook. She hangs with me sometimes when you’re off to do your duties, and it always made me smile how adoringly she looked at you, whether up close or from afar.”

“That’s, uh… that’s nice to know,” Jungkook hums, feeling his heartbeat quicken.

“And it shouldn’t be news to you anymore. She may be catching a lot of people’s attention but at the end of day, all she wants is you.”

And right on cue, you look around and find him, your soft eyes asking if he’s okay. Jungkook nods - to you and to Namjoon’s suggestion of going over to you.

“Hey, hun,” you take his hand as he gets closer. “This is Woobin, Sunoo’s dad. He was just showing me photos of them painting the new playroom.” You turn to the other man. “This is Jungkook, my husband.”

“Hi,” Jungkook shakes Woobin’s hand. “So you’re the father of the famous Sunoo. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Ah, so she’s talked about him,” Woobin chuckles. “And yes, I am. My son adores your wife, as many of the kids and their parents surely do.”

“___ talks about the kids at her class all the time,” Jungkook smiles, realizing it now. “They just make her so happy.”

Despite your busy schedule full of your own classes and the ones you run, on top of your actual job at the art firm and being an artist yourself, you’re devoid of any stress once you start talking about your students. You know what they like to paint or draw, know how to help them improve, and have so many ideas to make them appreciate art even more. It’s no wonder they love you as much as they do.

“Ah, that’s no surprise. I’m just glad my son got to enroll in her class. I heard it’s tough to get into it now since she’s in demand,” Woobin states. “But it was nice to meet you, Jungkook, and nice to see you again, ___. Sunoo will be happy to know I saw you tonight.”

You and Jungkook bid him goodbye and you turn to your husband, smiling sweetly at him.

“I’ve seen everything tonight,” you inform him. “Another round of desserts and then we can go?”

“Sure, but I’m suddenly craving for churros and ice cream,” he responds.

“Hmm, let’s go to McDonald’s, then.”

“Alright, but uh, are you cold? Do you want to put this on?”

Jungkook removes his coat and offers it to you, and though you know the breeze outside is manageable, you take it, somehow wanting him much closer tonight. You also know that perhaps it’s your low neckline that he’s a bit wary of.

“Sure, Kook. Thank you.”

You lean on Jungkook’s shoulder and hum in satisfaction over the strawberry-flavored sundae. “Hmm, this is almost just as good as the desserts at the event.”

“Babe, McDonald’s is always just as good or better than anything,” Jungkook says with a half-full mouth. “It’s truly amazing.”

“It is. Somehow it cleanses our palette of rich-people stuff, doesn’t it?” You laugh and he joins you. It’s something that sparked your bond in the beginning, after all, and that hasn’t changed.

“Yeah, but it’s also just my happy food, you know? Grease, sweets, unhealthy stuff… delicious.”

“Happy food, huh? Did something upset you tonight? Or maybe someone?” You ask, wanting to know if him stepping away while you spoke with Woobin has something to do with it.

“Not really. Woobin didn’t cross a line,” Jungkook says, an admission that he knows what you’re talking about. “I mean, he was looking at you like a man with a crush, though, and I can’t blame him but he knew his boundaries. Good for him.”

“Of course he does, Kook. He knows I have a husband.”

“Yes, after you told him you couldn’t have coffee with him when he asked you out, which means that he was interested and he probably still is, like that nude model who was definitely into you.”

You turn to look at him who’s busy with his sundae but clearly bothered, but not enough to be angry. You’ve always been honest with him, the way he’d always been honest about the women at the Clubhouse who’d thrown themselves at him after one of his soccer games. You’ve always trusted each other, and you’re just glad that that’s always been enough to not have any miscommunication or arguments because of it.

“Ah, Samuel. Yeah, that was new.”

“Oh? He’s never hinted on a crush? Dude was looking at you like you were all he could see,” Jungkook shakes his head.

“Yeah, then you came in with a kiss and swept me off my feet,” you teasingly roll your eyes. “How romantic.”

“Sorry, it was just reflex,” he explains.

“I know, but you have nothing to worry about, okay? I tell you everything. Maybe not the mundane interactions or insignificant things that I easily forget but the important ones.”

“I know,” he says, smiling at you. “And you know I tell you everything, too.”

“You do,” you smile back. “But thank you for making it tonight. You’ve been so busy and I’m just glad I got to be with you.”

“Anything for you, babe. You’ve been so busy, too, and honestly, I didn’t mind moving the meeting with my father since I wasn’t really ready. Plus, all I had to say was that I was accompanying you to an art event and he let me go. You’re a spoiled daughter-in-law, you know that?”

You laugh at his teasing and the fact that your husband had the gall to ask his own father and boss to move a meeting for you.

“I am, actually. And now it benefits you, too!”

“It benefits both of us,” he corrects. “But tonight was good. I mean, I kinda had to ward off certain men but I didn’t mind. It was still a fun one.”

“It was,” you hum, basking in his boyish smile and the twinkle in his eyes. Something comes alive inside you when he looks at you this way, and amidst the midnight buzzing of a McDonald’s in the city, you move closer and kiss his lips, gentle but wanting, and you feel him smile even wider against you.

“Babe, we’re in public,” he teases, and much as he likes to do that, he also enjoys it when you get a little flustered even when you mouth that you ‘don’t care.’

You peck his cheek and pull him, and as you walk to the car with his coat over your shoulder, as you talk about the art collection all the way home, and as you share a bath and then lie bare underneath the covers with your tangled limbs, Jungkook only knows this - this is your world, and in the one you both share, you’re the only two people who matter.

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#jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfiction #husband jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #jungkook series #please love me

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bluecatwriter · 4 days

Text

Blood of My Blood: Permission

@animate-mush and @ibrithir-was-here, I finally finished drafting the scene! XD

As Quincey Harker first begins to fall in love with Lu Holmwood, he realizes that he should ask for her father's permission to court her. That should be an easy conversation, right?

CW: Descriptions of emotional abuse, mention of smoking

---

Arthur stood at a window in the second story, looking down at his only daughter, his most precious child, strolling and laughing on the lawn below with a vampire.

Evening light bathed them both, making Lu's curls look like they were pure gold, and giving the boy's pallid skin enough color that he would have almost looked human— were it not for the glowing red of his eyes, so bright that Arthur could see it even from up here. Lu said something and the vampire laughed.

Arthur's hands clenched the windowsill as he leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the roiling in his stomach that hadn't quite subsided since the creature had shown up in his office several days ago. Why he had even let Lu meet the boy in the first place was beyond him. He should have made some excuse— oh no, Lu, there's an undead creature running loose in Scotland, you and Uncle Jack had better go take care of it!— and sent her away. He should have kept her safe. That was his duty as her father.

Of course, it wouldn't have worked. Lu was smart, and Arthur was not a good liar.

But Arthur had failed to prevent their meeting, and now Lu was completely smitten. What's worse, it was easy to see why. The boy was sweet and engaging, an attentive listener, fascinated by the beauty of the world. He quoted romantic poetry with the same enthusiasm that other boys might discuss sports teams. And whatever he was, he was not a vampire like they had fought before. Arthur had tried five different crucifixes on him, as if one could be defective somehow, and forced him to chew garlic while Arthur stared at him as if daring him to collapse into dust on the spot. One of their sources had brought Arthur some holy water, and when he dabbed it in the shape of a cross on the boy's forehead, the vampire had stood there obediently and then asked if something was supposed to happen.

Lu suddenly looked up, and saw Arthur spying on them (no, not spying, he just happened to catch a glimpse and had to check on what they were doing, just in case the vampire was, for instance, trying to rip her throat out). Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, the rebellious little grin on her face quite familiar to him now. He remembered how timid she was when he first met her, how she shrank into herself as if wishing she could disappear. Now she laughed loudly and grinned fiercely and made it clear that she was going to do whatever she willed, regardless of what "the dad" had to say about it. And that was what Arthur wanted, really— for her to be bold and confident and sure of herself— but why oh why did it have to manifest this way?

She waved and blew him a kiss. Arthur blew her a kiss in return, and managed to even smile, but his smile only held until the vampire turned his head and looked up at him too.

Their eyes locked, red to blue, and Arthur felt protectiveness rising in him like a flood. If he was a good father, he would march that boy into his office and tell him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his daughter. If you so much as think about touching her, I will stake you right through your unbeating heart, do you understand?!

The boy tipped his hat, bowing his head with that eerie courteousness that he had shown ever since he'd arrived. He looked a lot like his father— or, as he often clarified, his papa— just then.

What was worse, Quincey being a vampire, or him being raised by the man who had tried to murder everyone Arthur loved?

Arthur stepped away from the window, found that standing was suddenly too much work, and leaned back against the wall instead, slowly sliding down it until he hit the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

He didn't cry long before he heard a soft rap on the doorframe, and he struggled to lift his head to see Jack standing there. Jack gave him a sympathetic smile, then crossed the room and held out his hand, helping Arthur up into a chair. Arthur wanted to bury his face in his hands and keep sobbing, but he could tell that Jack wanted to talk, so he just looked at Jack through tears.

Jack stroked his hand soothingly through Arthur's hair a few times before withdrawing it to sign, "Lu?"

Arthur choked out a small sound, and jerked his head toward the window. The sounds of Lu and the boy laughing came through the glass. "Jack, am I doing the right thing?"

Jack sighed, his smile turning wry. "You know Lu. She will do what she wants regardless, so we might as well go along with it."

Arthur groaned, leaning into Jack's touch as he petted his hair again. They'd had a similar conversation three years earlier, when Lu had started hanging about with a disgusting boy who treated her like a supporting character for his own ego. Arthur had wanted to throw him out onto the street on his head, but Jack had counseled that Arthur keep his disgust to himself. Forbidden love is very romantic, Jack had said, and Lu is a romantic at heart. She gets that from me, he'd added with a little smile. Arthur had gritted his teeth for four months, until one day Lu showed up unexpectedly in his room, her mascara running, and told him that she'd dumped her boyfriend. Arthur had never been so relieved in his life.

"I'm supposed to keep our daughter safe," Arthur said, his voice choking a little. "How do I know… how can I be sure…"

"You can't," Jack signed, his movements short and sharp. "We must trust what we know: that the holy objects don't burn him, that he has never drunk blood from an unwilling subject, and that his goodness seems entirely unfeigned."

Arthur gulped. "I don't know how I can handle this."

Jack kissed his forehead. "One step at a time," he said when he pulled away. Then he straightened, and Arthur could see him switching into Doctor Mode. "Now, young man, I am going to take your blood pressure."

He strode out of the room and returned with his sphygmomanometer, which he set up on the table. Arthur tried to calm his breathing as Jack placed the cuff around his arm and puffed it up, then frowned at the rising mercury on the device.

After a moment, Jack sighed, setting down the pump in his hand to sign, "It's a wonder your blood vessels haven't exploded."

Arthur groaned and leaned back in his chair as Jack deflated the cuff.

"Maybe you should smoke more, to calm your nerves."

"I would turn into a chimney."

Jack huffed a laugh, and when Arthur tried to follow suit, he ended up crying again. Jack wrapped both arms around him and held him as Arthur shook silently, while the sounds of his daughter and the vampire laughing still drifting through the window.

* * *

Lu had complained about having to attend a boring party tonight with a friend, but Quincey was actually glad for it, because it gave him an opportunity to do what he'd suddenly realized he must do as soon as possible.

He'd gotten careless, and lovestruck. (Lovestruck, what a beautiful word! He had imagined so many times what it must be like to be struck by love, but the reality was even better than he expected.) He'd gotten carried away, lost in the glow of Lu's presence— the sparkle of her eyes, the sharp wit of her words, the unabashed confidence in the way she moved through the world. He had been pining like a lover in one of those ballads he loved to read. And he had forgotten the most important step of all, the one that all other steps depended on.

Lord Godalming's scowl from the window this evening had thrown the necessity of this step into sharp focus. He must approach Godalming tonight and hope to set all in order.

After Lu had left for her party, the servants directed him to Godalming's office, and Quincey stood at the door for a long time, rehearsing his speech in his head, before knocking. He heard Godalming's "Come," and opened the door, stepping inside with his most respectful yet friendly face on, to see Godalming at his desk.

Godalming's face always changed when Quincey entered the room: a tightening of his whole expression, as if it had suddenly become an effort to hold his skin in place. In the corner, Dr. Seward looked up from reading something. It was easier to decipher his expressions: he stared with singleminded focus and curiosity, much like Mum did, rather than Godalming's fidgeting and pacing and avoiding eye contact. But Godalming was the one Quincey must address, and so he only spoke to him.

"Lord Godalming," he said, proud of the even measure of his voice. "I ask your permission to come in and speak."

Godalming cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hands. "Yes, of course," he said, though his tone was unconvincing. Still, Quincey must take a chance.

"Thank you, lord." He crossed the room quickly and stood before Godalming's desk, his head bowed as if under the weight of an invisible hand. Before he could lose his nerve, he launched into the speech he had prepared. "Lord Arthur Godalming, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking me under your roof, and for the hospitality that you have shown to me in my time here. I know that all in this household are under your authority, and all here belong first and foremost to you."

Quincey couldn't quite tell what kind of expression Godalming was making— he shifted in his seat, that tightness in his face grew more pronounced, and he glanced over at Dr. Seward. But he didn't tell Quincey to stop, so Quincey plowed on.

"I know you are a benevolent lord, for you allow all those of your household to pursue their lives in bliss and harmony. With this in mind, I humbly beg you to hear my request."

Here he paused, looking for any sign of what Godalming might be thinking. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps— it was hard to tell— but he was not scowling, snarling, or getting that cold look that Father got right before breaking something. So far, so good. After a moment Godalming said, with bluster in his voice, "Out with it, then."

Quincey breathed a little sigh of relief to have explicit permission to continue, but worked to keep his voice formal. "Thank you for the opportunity to make my request. Lord Arthur Godalming, I ask that I may pursue and court your most treasured and beloved property, Lucille Holmwood."

"What?!" Godalming sputtered, and leaped to his feet. Suddenly, his expression was as easy to read as a book: outrage, and surprise.

Quincey resisted the urge to take a step back. He was surprised, too— he thought it was obvious that they were interested in each other. What part of this wasn't Godalming understanding?

"Don't ever call my daughter 'property' again!" Godalming roared, slamming his hands on the desk.

Now he did startle backward, blinking in confusion. Out of everything in his statement, how could Godalming possibly be angry at that? His mind scrambled to interpret the situation, wondering what unspoken rule he had trespassed.

"She is a person," Godalming continued, "not some trinket that I own— and certainly not a thing for you to own, either!"

"I would never dare!" Quincey burst out, affronted at the very thought, before remembering himself and dropping his head in deference. He had to show that he was obedient, that he would listen to the lecture and the learn the Lesson embedded in it.

Quincey had learned long ago that he had no desire to be like Father— he had no desire to rule, to overpower, to possess. But he had often, so often, dreamed of being like Papa. He had hoped to find a man or woman that he could adore and care for, someone he could protect. Owning another person was never something he had considered, even though he knew that Father would be disappointed in his lack of ambition.

He realized that he'd just been staring blankly at Godalming, who was clearly waiting for him to respond, and he scrambled to find the words that would avoid the worst kind of punishment. Bowing his head further, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I did not mean to cause offense, lord, but of course that is no excuse," he said, all in a rush. "I will welcome any punishment you see fit."

He didn't know what kinds of punishments Godalming was likely to give. The dread of not knowing made his stomach twist, but if he could endure it, perhaps Godalming would consider him worthy.

"I'm not going to punish you," Godalming said, speaking with disbelief, as if it was a ridiculous idea. (He must be trying to put Quincey off his guard so that he wouldn't expect the punishment when it came; Quincey made a mental note to stay alert so that it wouldn't catch him by surprise.)

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said simply. He kept his head down, watching furtively as Godalming and Dr. Seward signed quickly back and forth to each other, Godalming frowning and Seward looking concerned. Lu had taught Quincey a few signs, but not nearly enough to have any idea what they were saying.

Godalming suddenly turned to face him, and Quincey straightened instinctively, though he still kept his head bowed. When Godalming spoke, his teeth were gritted, but he appeared to be trying to control himself. He seemed to value self-control, just like Mum did. "Jack has suggested that perhaps I've misunderstood you. Explain, then—" The sharp edge on his voice flared, then subsided. "—why you referred to my daughter as 'property.'"

Quincey spoke carefully, knowing that speaking the wrong word could be the difference between getting his request and getting severely punished. "Lucille belongs to you, is it not so?"

"Not in the way an object belongs to me," Godalming said, starting to pace. He turned on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at him. "And if you think to treat her like your property—"

Quincey flinched as if he'd been slapped. To be accused not once, but twice, of trying to commit treason in this way made him feel horribly hurt, but he couldn't just blurt that out. He struggled to say, "My lord, please let me speak."

"Speak!" Godalming burst out, waving a hand at him. "You don't need my permission, just speak!"

Quincey fought down the tears that threatened to spill over his eyes, stumbling over his words. "Thank you, lord. I… I had no thought of making her my property. I meant that… I was asking if I could become your property, sir."

Godalming stopped pacing stared at him as if he'd said the most unintelligible string of words ever spoken. Quincey stood there, unsure whether to keep talking, and then Godalming sharply turned to Dr. Seward, and they signed back and forth with puzzled scowls on their faces. Quincey waited anxiously, wondering if they were discussing his punishment. He hoped that he wouldn't cry when they put him through it. He hadn't cried during a punishment in a long time.

"Yes, I know, Jack!" Godalming said unexpected, then grabbed a paperweight that sat on his desk, fidgeting with it as he spoke. It looked fairly heavy; it would hurt if he chose to hit Quincey with it. Father considered corporal punishment to be uncivilized, but a different lord might have a different rule. "Just tell me," Godalming said to him, and again it was clear he was putting a lot of effort into sounding calm, "do you consider yourself to be anyone's property now?"

Quincey could have wept with relief to get a question that made sense— but now that it was posed to him, he had to pause. He had been ready to blurt out that yes, of course, he belonged to Father, and only to Father, as everyone in the household did, but…

Papa's last words to him were imprinted on his mind. He hadn't really understood them, standing at the castle doors that day that seemed so long ago now, but the reality of it was beginning to sink in. Remember, you don’t belong to him. Or, or to us. Just to yourself.

"I don't," he said, and he felt a terrifying emptiness at the declaration. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. "When I lived in Castle Dracula, I was Father's property, along with Papa, and Mum, and everything in the house. But Papa has sent me out now and says that I belong only to myself." Now that he said it out loud, it seemed stranger and stranger. But of course Papa would never go against what Father wanted. Papa had always taught him to do what was right, and obeying Father was right. Father must have changed his mind, and wanted him to own himself.

Godalming's expression remained steady, so Quincey decided to go on. "My heart's desire is to find another household where I may be owned and show my love and loyalty, just like Papa did. This is my deepest wish, that I have held since before I even knew that such a thing were possible." He shut his mouth, squeezing his hands together.

The past few days, he had been thinking about the possibility of asking Lu to kiss him. He had never been kissed by anyone before, except the bloodless kisses that Mum and Papa gave him. Perhaps she would not like the taste of of his blood, but he could offer, anyway, and maybe she would like to try. He imagined her lips open against his arm— or even perhaps his throat!— and wondered what it would like to feel his skin give way under her teeth, to feel his blood leaving his body to nourish that one he loved. The thought of it was so exciting that it made him feel a weakness in his legs, a fluttering in his stomach.

"Quincey!"

Quincey didn't realize he'd been daydreaming, and he snapped back to attention, again speaking in a rush. "I apologize for letting my mind wander, lord, I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"I'm not going to— for Christ's sake—" Godalming looked helplessly at Dr. Seward, as if he could explain this, while Quincey stood there still feeling confused. "Good grief, child, what kind of a life have you had?"

This was probably a test, but Quincey didn't know how to pass it. "A happy one," he said simply. "I come from a loving family."

"Why are you so afraid of punishment, if your family was so loving?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Punishment is love," Quincey said, a note of frustration entering his voice. He felt a wave of anger at Godalming for insulting Father, for disrespecting the name of the family. "Father punished me to teach me how to be strong and right."

Godalming's eyes blazed again; Quincey wondered why it seemed to make him so angry. "So he never hurt you?" Godalming asked.

"Never," Quincey said, putting emphasis on the word, "except when it was for my good."

Godalming raised an eyebrow. "And when it was 'for your good'? What did he do then?"

"Whatever best suited the disobedience." Quincey spoke without emotion, trying to tamp down the annoyance he felt at this clearly bad-faith questioning of his Father's parenting skills. What did Godalming care?

"For instance?" Godalming pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Again, Quincey decided this must be a test. He focused on speaking as plainly and completely as possible. "If I paid too much attention to my books and not enough to him, he would make me tear up the books and feed the pages into the fire. Or if I forgot my place, he would come into my room and destroy my things."

Godalming's expression was changing from demanding to horrified. "What kinds of things?"

He had a sudden, sharp memory of a stuffed toy rabbit that Papa had brought him when he was a small child. He could still feel the soft cotton against his cheek, see the button eyes and the embroidered smile. He'd named it Hoppy.

"Things I liked. Especially things that Papa bought me in town. For instance, once I owned a toy rabbit. But then I questioned a decision that Father made, and so he took my rabbit and—" His voice caught; there was something about saying this out loud, when he had never spoken of it before, that made him suddenly feel like he was going to cry. "—and tore it to pieces."

He still remembered the sound of the fabric ripping, the way that Father had held Hoppy just out of Quincey's reach and methodically shredded the toy until only fibers and buttons were left, Quincey screaming and begging him to stop all the while. Afterward, Quincey had wept and gathered up the shreds and brought them to Papa. Sometimes Papa could fix the things Father broke, but this was not one of those times.

Papa had held him tightly and let him cry, and afterward they had had a burial service for Hoppy, at sunrise after Quincey should have been in bed.

He felt tears in his eyes and a knot in his throat, and in his attempt to hide both, he lashed out. "But the punishments worked! I learned to never question the wisdom of those better than me, and to obey instructions, and to be respectful in all circumstances. Besides, none of the things he destroyed were mine. They were all his. Everything in the whole land was his. Sometimes I just forgot. But I do not forget anymore. I would never ask to possess anything for myself. If you allow me to be part of your household, I will never forget that all belongs to you."

There was a long silence.

"Jesus Christ," Godalming said, and slumped into his chair.

Quincey wasn't sure why Godalming was invoking the name of the man on the crucifix he now wore, but it was not the time to be asking questions. He stood there, waiting for him to speak again.

Godalming groaned, dragging a hand across his face. "Quincey, I— I don't know what to say."

Once again, a feeling of relief came over Quincey. He knew this kind of roundabout speaking, and knew what the proper response was. Without hesitation, he dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his face against the carpet.

"Lord Godalming, I throw myself upon your mercy, as a wretch, a worm, begging to be your property and yours alone, to sit at your table and eat your scraps—"

"What the hell are you doing?" Godalming yelled. "Get up!"

Quincey sat up quickly, still on his knees, staring at Godalming's horrified expression over the desk. "I… I thought you wanted me… to beg?" Father had always liked begging.

"God, no! Quincey, please, please just pull up a chair and sit down and listen."

That he could do. Quincey quickly pulled up a chair and sat, hands in his lap. Godalming stood up and began to pace again, still fidgeting with the paperweight. He seemed to be grasping for words to say, and it was only after signing back and forth with Dr. Seward for a few moments that he spoke.

"Quincey, you say that you belong to yourself. Well, Lu belongs to herself, too. No one in this household is my property. Do you understand? Everyone here belongs to himself."

Quincey didn't see how that could possibly work, but there was nothing to do but take Godalming at his word and hope this was not a test. "I understand, lord."

Godalming paused, and looked at Quincey with a cross between pain and exasperation. "Quincey, you're a vampire. Lu is a human. You are a danger to her, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you to court her."

Quincey felt the words sink into him like ice, and the urge to throw himself facedown on the carpet again made his fingers twitch.

"But," Godalming said, and paused. In that pause, it seemed that he aged ten years before Quincey's eyes. "But," he said again, and now his voice was husky, "I do not have the say in this. As I said, Lu belongs to herself, not to me. If you want to court Lu, and she wants to court you, then I… I won't stop you."

Quincey stared at him. This was impossible; he must have heard wrong. "You do not wish to exercise your right of ownership?" he asked hesitantly.

Godalming looked unspeakably weary. "Lu can make her own decisions— and you'd damn well better abide by whatever she decides."

"Yes, lord, of course," Quincey said quickly, still wondering if this was some sort of illusion that he would wake up from.

"But make no mistake: if it comes to it, I will protect my daughter above all else. Do you understand?"

Quincey resisted the urge to smile in relief. Here it was, a straightforward threat, something that he was used to working with. He tempered his wave of excitement, and stood solemnly, bowing. "I understand, lord. I swear to you, I will give you no reason for displeasure."

Godalming looked somehow even greyer than before as he leaned wearily on one hand. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, but it was a halfhearted mutter.

There was a long pause.

"All right, now go." Godalming waved his hand in dismissal.

Whatever he might say, Quincey knew that permission to approach Lu as equals was still a privilege that Godalming had bestowed on him, and Quincey must acknowledge the gift. He reached across the desk and took Godalming's hand with both of his. Godalming startled, but Quincey was committed to the gesture now: he bowed his head over his hand and pressed a bloodless kiss to it, the way that Papa would do with Father when thanking him or placating him. He felt Godalming shudder under his touch.

He still suspected that this whole scenario was some sort of test, and that Godalming would punish him for it, but at least he could be on his guard now— and at least he could invoke Godalming's words against him if he tried to change his mind. Papa had taught him that it was important to remember exactly a person's words, so that you could use them in the future if you needed.

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said, looking earnestly into Godalming's face. One of his eyes was twitching, and Quincey could hear his heartbeat loudly. "I will treasure this kindness." Then he raced out of the room before Godalming could change his mind.

Arthur groaned and sank back in his chair, feeling a shiver go through his whole body. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, see the soft, bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye. Jack raised his hand to speak.

"Don't," Arthur snapped. "Don't say a single word, Jack Seward."

Jack stood instead and walked to his side, planting a kiss on his head. "I'm proud of you, just the same," he signed, before using his hand to feel along Arthur's neck for his pulse. He pulled back and shook his head disapprovingly. "Blood pressure, young man, blood pressure."

"I said not a single word."

"I'll get you a cigarette."

"Jack!" Arthur grabbed his arm, and felt suddenly that Jack was the only real thing in this upside-down world where he had just allowed a vampire to start courting his daughter.

Jack paused, then settled himself onto Arthur's lap, linking his arms around him. In this position he couldn't speak, but he breathed long, slow breaths, his way of reminding Arthur to breathe, too. Arthur shuddered through several shaky breaths before he was able to slow enough to match Jack's pace.

The unknown loomed before them, like a great blackness in his mind. He couldn't protect their daughter forever. Lu would make her own decision, and then… well, then there was nothing to do but wait and see.

~~~

#my writing #blood of my blood #dracula fanfiction #quincey harker #arthur holmwood #jack seward

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barsformars · 2 months

Text

A Little More

g - fluff

p - jongho x gn!reader

w.c - 1.2k

t.w - none

a.n - i wrote this back in 2020??? i found it in my notion drafts so i edited it a lil bit and decided to post it (i dont think ive posted this? i couldnt find it on my page)

You tapped your feet impatiently to a made-up rhythm in your head, constantly glancing up at the clock hanging on the wall right behind your teacher. Urgh, class was supposed to end 16 minutes ago.

"Are we going to miss it?" Jongho turned to ask even though he had already guessed that judging from the way you were acting.

"If she doesn't stop talking right now," you leaned in slightly and replied softly, not wanting to get caught talking in class. That would just mean getting held back a little longer than you would like to. "Gosh, I'm not even absorbing an-“

You pause at the sudden quietness of the classroom, looking up to see Ms Kang with her arms folded across her chest. Uh-oh.

But before she even has a chance to call the both of you out, Jongho raises his hand, making up a lie on the spot as an excuse. "Sorry, they were explaining a question to me!" He nudges you with his elbow, which was your cue to apologise as well so that Ms Kang would just get over it.

"Alright, but next time don't discuss while I'm speaking. Got it?"

"Yep!" You rolled your eyes playfully at your table partner, he has a way of always getting out of trouble. It was just impossible for anyone to dislike him, and all the grown-ups just absolutely adore him.

Thankfully for the both of you (and everybody else), Ms Kang decided that there was no point in carrying on the lesson any further. She said that everyone looked 'too dead on the inside' which wasn't not true at all. It's just the case when school had started as early as 7.30 in the morning, only ending now at 5pm (or rather 5.20pm).

You stuffed all your belongings into your bag hurriedly before helping Jongho with his. Why does he always have a pile of loose notes and books under his table? Now, if it wasn't for how early the sunsets were nowadays now that it’s winter, you wouldn't be rushing him. You never liked pressuring anyone in any way.

"If we miss it today, we can just catch it tomorrow or whenever, you know." It wasn't that Jongho didn't like you rushing him, in fact, he doesn't mind it at all. He just rather not see you stressing over something so minor so unnecessarily.

Jongho had a point, but you really wanted to see the sunset today for whatever reason. Or actually there were many reasons. You know how there's always one week in the month where the sunsets just hit different from the other days? That's what you have observed at least, even if you didn't have any scientific information to back it up or prove that was really the case. Anyways, to put it short, the sunsets recently have been extra pretty and if you don't catch it today, you'll have to wait another month. Why? You have classes that extend way past 5 o'clock starting tomorrow.

And besides, you couldn’t wait any longer. As curious as you were hopeful, you really wanted to know who Jongho had caught feelings for. He promised he would tell you on a day the sunset is exceptionally beautiful.

"We still have a little more time left," you said, not bothering to explain your thoughts to Jongho. It's too much effort to try and properly formulate your thoughts into coherent sentences.

"Alright, let's go then." Without any warning, Jongho takes hold of your wrist, pulling you along with him as the both of you ran down the hallway, then the 8 flights of stairs and finally to the open field at the back of the campus.

After all the panting and gasping for air, you tilted your head upwards only to be greeted by light grey clouds filling up the sky. The golden rays of the sunset were barely peeking out from the back despite it extending out like roots greedy for nutrients in the soil.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and checked the time, hoping that maybe this was only the starting and not the end. "They say the sun sets in 6 minutes, so I guess we just wait?" You suggested, already seated on the floor before Jongho could process your words.

He remained standing, looking down at you with narrowed eyes. There was definitely something wrong with whatever you had just said but Jongho couldn't tell if he or you were the stupid one here. "I think that means the sky goes dark then, no? Like when the sun completely sets....." His voice trails off as you tugged at the sleeve of his uniform to get him to sit down as well.

"I don't know, but no harm in waiting just a little while more."

"I guess," Jongho said with a shrug of his shoulders.

But a lot of things can happen in just a little while. For example, Jongho might just muster up a little more courage in this peaceful silence to confess his feelings for you. And in this little while, an amazing friendship could very possibly end, unless you saw him as a little more than only a friend.

Jongho decides not to take the risk just yet; there's no harm in waiting just a little while more. Just a little more, when he can be a little more sure of your feelings as well.

"What's with this weird atmosphere?" You joked, an attempt to ignore how fast your heart was racing right now. Lucky for Jongho, you were too busy calming yourself down that you missed the way his body immediately tensed up at your question.

"Uhm, I'm guessing that's-" Jongho points up at the sky that was very far from spectacular-"all today's sunset has to offer." That wasn't the best way to break the awkward silence but oh well...

"Can we wait 5 more minutes?" You had almost lost all hope at this point but you never know what might happened in the next few minutes. Maybe Jongho would finally decide to let you in on his crush's identity as he had promised. Because if he doesn't, then you might. And if it so happens that your feelings for him aren't reciprocated, you were only going to burden him with your feelings. You don't want that, but right now you're barely holding yourself back. "Do you even remember what you promised me?"

"The thing about my crush?"

"Mhmm..."

"Yea, I remember. But today's sunset isn't it." Jongho sighed as he leaned back on his hands, staring up at the now dark sky. "Just wait a little while more."

"Well, but I don't want to miss the timing just like we did with the sunset today so I'll just say it." Your voice was shakier but in no way more timid than usual, perhaps it was the adrenaline that was rushing through your veins right now. Because right now, you couldn't care less about the weight and consequences of your words.

"Choi Jongho, I really like you a lot."

#ateez #ateez fluff #ateez reactions #ateez fic #ateez writing #ateez scenario #ateez drabbles #ateez blurbs #jongho #jongho fluff

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l-e-morgan-author · 2 months

Text

on mental health, autism and my life lately

Contentedly, Patience settled to her knitting, glad to have the hardest part of the day over. Now all she had to fight was complicated patterns, and cables that didn’t really want to work exactly how they were supposed to. Much easier than people.

*points* autism

Anyway this is. I originally put the rest of this in the tags and then I typed it up here again because no, it has to be part of the post, actually.

So two weeks ago I was completely convinced that I would die in a matter of days. By my own hand. I was severely suicidal, at an eight on the Emmengard scale, except for the frequent times it tipped up to nine. It was hell. I had a friend overseas who the entire year so far, I didn't think I'd see again because I would have killed myself before she got home. It was that bad.

And she's got home, and barring accident, I will see her again. I've been on the brink of suicide for more than two months, and now, that's changed. Truly I didn't realise how bad it was, really, until I was delivered from it.

This might seem completely separated from the original excerpt, but bear with me. I was realising just now that if I'd written Patience, Changing a year ago, it wouldn't be half so good. So far I'm up to 18k, and it's good. It has a lot of stuff to work on, of course, and I'm still distilling the true centre of it. It'll take a few drafts, but it's good. Patience is autistic, and I knew that a year ago. But I didn't know I was autistic, not then. Now, I understand myself a great deal more, and I understand her because of that. She's me, to some extent, including aspects of me that I didn't even realise were a thing until recently. Because I know me more, I now lean into the aspects in which we are similar, and relish the ones in which we're different. She has one good, close friend in a way I just don't have, not precisely like that. (Look, I love and cherish my friends, truly, but Patience and Nathan's friendship is just Different. And I certainly didn't have anyone like that at her age. Maybe if I had things would have been different for me.)

My heart is full of love today; I can't stop thinking, Patience, we made it. We both made it. We had patience (ha!) and we MADE it. We got here, and for now that's enough. I did an artwork once that was featured in my university's mental health exhibition, about how today is enough, sometimes.

Anyway, the reason I've been so much better (and written about 20k in the last week alone, unheard of for months because of severe depression) is anxiety medication. My doctor put me on medication for anxiety, as a last-ditch attempt before hospitalisation for suicide concern as well as self harm. They're highly addictive, and thus he doesn't want me on them for much longer, so I might be singing a different tune in a few days when he tells me to stop taking them or something, but even so. For now, this is enough. Sure, I'm still depressed. But barely. I've been on the line of severe/extremely severe for both depression and anxiety for ages, and whether it's the anxiety med alone or that it gives the antidepressant I've been on a while space to actually work, the difference is drastic.

So I'm drafting Patience, Changing. And having enormous fun. I'm planning all sorts of things. (Check my tumblr blog, @l-e-morgan-author for more fun and exciting things I get up to.) I'm even planning to hit 25k tomorrow on Patience, Changing, and I'm on 56k total draft for all the Patience things, including fluff prompts that will turn into a novella, and the existing novella The Patience of Hope.

So this might be a short-term thing, but guys. We made it. We made it. And I talked to my grandmother today about being autistic, and told her I think she's autistic, and she was fascinated by that, and was very autistic about it, and she asked all sorts of lovely questions.

And I debated something with someone who doesn't share my faith, and I failed in the debate because I didn't know enough to answer their arguments, but hey. That's okay.

That's okay. I'm okay. I'm planning for uni already. Gonna be a difficult semester, but even so. I'm excited for it. Excited! Something I haven't been, not really, for months and maybe years.

I leave you, then, with this excerpt from later on in the chapter:

You are whole, said the anonymous letter. You are whole, Patience, you are not broken.

this post was published on my blog, with minor edits.

Patience taglist:

@pilgrimsofworship

@stealingmyplaceinthesun

@noisette-tornade

@graycedelfin

@choasuqeen

#patience changing #patience shepherd #actually autistic #we made it guys. we had patience and we MADE IT

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queenofsimpsblog · 1 year

Text

believe me - shuri x reader pt 2

HCEWUGCFYUEWG so my dumbass accidentally deleted the 2nd draft, so i had to rewrite this bad boy MULTIPLE TIMES to make it absolutely perfect for you guys, cuz everyone loved pt 1 so much i just knew i had to make pt 2 as perfect as possible WARNINGS: mentions of drowning, fight scenes, gets a little graphic towards the end, pure fluff ending here are all the accounts that asked for a pt 2 (sorry if i missed a few): @shurislover @taiiunknown @sinsikoxo @mysticalmarss @lilroachsworld @angelsmist @ogbells16 @youralphawolf72 @6-noir @awolfcsworld @adeola-the-explorer @shuriszn @kya-rose @minionslikeppl @anonassbjtch @miguenza @dovesbeauty @yamsthoughts @k3nn3dyxo honorary mention to @locoforshuri WHO HAS IGNORED ME FOR SO LONG SMH LIKE BITCH ARE YOU ALIVE?! ARE YOU DEAD?! HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF YOU IGNORE ME LIL SHIT?! YOU GOT OTHER HOES OR SMTH?! I THOUGHT WE HAD SMTH SPECIAL ok i'm done with my lil rage outburst, y'all have fun reading this <3

"what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

*20 minutes ago*

"oh please. you're just jealous that i love maya and not you," shuri spat out. you were too upset to deal with the way her comment stung your heart, so you chugged the remainder of your drink and left the booth.

shuri shut her eyes and sighed in annoyance. she regretted her words the instant they left her mouth. she wanted to get up and look for you, but your body was lost in the dancing crowd.

she downed her scotch, still feeling thirsty. shuri was feeling out of sync the entire day. she felt parched, hungry, nauseous, irritated. it wasn't her period, no. it was something else.

she stayed at her seat, drinking shot after shot. one of the downsides to being the black panther was an incredibly fast metabolic rate. in layman terms, she couldn't get drunk that easily.

she stayed at her seat, staring at her hands. thinking of you. missing you. feeling guilty for what she said.

just then, her kimoyo beads buzzed. an SOS message from you. the alcohol instantly evaporated as she saw the alert. shuri got up from her seat, using her panther vision to locate riri at the bar, talking to the waitress who flirted with her earlier.

***

(lil smth for the fight scene)

"what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

you turned from your seat to look at maya, standing at the door frame, looking angry, and a tad bit scared.

"me? what's all this?! who the fuck are you, and why are you here?!"

"that's none of your business."

"excuse me?! oh fuck this. i'm showing shuri all of this, right the fuck now," you waved your phone at her smugly. maya reached ahead for it but you blocked her hand with your other arm, throwing her against the bookshelf, knocking a few heavy books down that hit her on the head. you took that as your chance and made a run for it.

while running, you opened your sling bag and put your phone inside, zipping it up and putting the sling around your shoulder to make sure the phone wouldn't fall down anywhere.

the sound of bullets being fired gave you an extra push to make you run faster. just then, maya switched to a different weapon. it sent a thick string of black slime that got hold of your foot and yanked you down. she then changed the setting to withdraw the slime, pulling your body to her so that she wouldn't have to run after you. she used a weapon that you designed against you. unbelievable. while that was happening, you took off an earring and hurriedly sent an SOS signal to the first contact that popped up, and threw your earring aside.

your body was being violently dragged towards maya, and when you were close enough, she made a move to get your purse. you punched her in the nose and pushed her head aside, giving you enough space to get up and a break for it again. that's when maya drove a knife in your thigh. you yelled in pain, as you tried to move. but maya was one step ahead. she took a white cloth and put it over your mouth. at that point, you realised that fighting against her was futile. in your final moments of consciousness, you took off your bracelet and threw it down before passing out.

maya smirked, proud at herself as she dragged your body to a secluded corner of the floor. drops of blood from your thigh marked her path. a large, potted plant stood there. she kicked it down, and pressed a button on the side, revealing a secret tunnel opening. she carelessly threw your body down the tunnel and gave you a slight push, following you afterwards.

***

"yeah, well, that's how i learned using a blowtorch to reheat a grilled cheese sandwich was a bad idea," riri spoke and the waitress laughed, smiling profusely.

they looked cute together, and shuri hated to interrupt the moment. but if the message wasn't an accident, and your life was actually at stake, then she knew that she had to do something about it.

"riri! i need your help to find y/n,"

"why don't you just track her with those beads?"

"it says she's right at the club, which doesn't make sense because i can't see her anywhere,"

the waitress interrupted their conversation. "if y/n is the type of person to trespass, you might want to check the third floor. she might've gotten too drunk and gone there by accident,"

riri smiled at the woman and thanked her for the suggestion, taking shuri's hand to lead her to the elevator.

"wait a minute, wasn't y/n supposed to be with you the entire time? why'd she leave?"

shuri sighed, angry at herself. she told riri what happened, causing the american to frown at her.

"dude, what the fuck?! that was totally uncalled for. y/n was just tryna help you. and besides, the rejection hurt her already. you didn't need to bring it up again,"

shuri stayed quiet. she knew what she did was wrong. but the constant hammering in her head robbed her of the ability to think properly.

the elevator door opened and they walked around, hoping to find you. the atmosphere was sinister. both women could tell that something bad happened there. riri looked at her friend. "i'll check the right side, you check the lift," shuri nodded silently and walked away, carefully assessing the scene. her feet led her to the very secluded room you found before, and she was more than shocked when she found everything.

the stalker board. the computer with wakanda's security secrets. it was all so overwhelming. what hit her hard was when she saw this one symbol on this piece of paper.

it was at if it put her in some sort of trance. memories flashed through her mind. the symbol was of the french embassy. she remembered seeing it when she first saw maya.

only when maya first introduced herself, she didn't go by that name. she said something else, but shuri couldn't remember. it was as if someone drugged her.

was that possible? was someone brave enough to drug the protector of wakanda? her thoughts were interrupted when she heard riri yell for her.

"shuri! i found something!!"

she ran towards riri's voice, and stopped when she saw the girl hold something in her hands.

"it's y/n's earring. she dropped it. do you think it's some sort of clue?" riri asked. shuri looked at the piece of jewelry to be sure. yes. it was yours. her gaze went down to the drops of blood on the floor, trailing off elsewhere. she gestured to it. riri got the message. both of them silently trailed the path of blood until it stopped and a knocked down plant.

shuri went closer to get a better look, and found the button. slightly hesitant, she pushed it, and the secret door opened up. both women looked at each other.

"you think that's where she went?" riri spoke as she looked around the tunnel.

shuri spotted the black bracelet on the floor and picked it up. "this bracelet belongs to y/n. i bought this for her last year. i think she dropped it on purpose. you were right. she's leaving clues for us,"

"but where does this tunnel lead to?"

the black panther lifted her kimoyo beads up. "griot. scan this opening, please. tell me where it leads to,"

"just one moment, panther," griot stayed quiet for a few seconds. "it appears to lead to a cave, your majesty. it's hidden quite well, deep within the ground. i sense some water bodies nearby. i believe it is somewhere near the river border,"

"okay, well, we're going after her," riri started removing her jewelry, getting ready to fight whoever tried to harm you.

"one moment, miss williams. i believe entering through the same opening may be a foolish choice, as you would land right in front of the enemy. there is another entrance to the cave. but you need to be able to hold your breath to use it."

"griot, do you have access to any security footage here?"

"my apologies, panther, but there are no surveillance cameras here. maya had them removed once she bought club purple,"

shuri groaned in frustration. "alright. send me the coordinates for the second opening. alert okoye and the dora milaje. get them on standby. i'm getting my girl back,"

shuri and riri sped their way back to the palace so that shuri could get her suit. riri changed into a bulletproof tracksuit she made for herself a couple years ago. they couldn't go save you in their club outfits, could they?!

while the royal talon fighter sped its way to the second entrance to the secret tunnel, riri asked her friend what she found on the other side of the hallway.

"maya... that's not her real name. y/n was right. she was using me. there was something off about her. i should've listened. this is all my fault," shuri dragged a hand on her face as riri rubbed her back.

"don't worry. we'll find her. she's gonna be okay. but wait, what did you say about maya? that ain't her real name?"

"i don't know, my memory is being weird. i somehow cannot recall what happened the day i met her. how we ended up dating. it's as if--"

"as if you were drugged?" riri finished the sentence. suddenly, everything clicked. shuri remembered everything, and blurted all of it out to riri.

***

you woke up. jittery, confused. taking a look at your surroundings, you realised that maya had you captured. you were tied to a wooden chair, and you seemed to be stuck in some sort of cave. there was a table in front of you, with a small black rectangular object. it looked like a taser, but you weren't quite sure. the wound on your leg was bandaged up. but who bandaged you in the first place?

"rise and shine, you little bitch," maya's voice loomed from behind you. she walked around to face you, and you sneered at the sight.

"oh i knew there was something off about you,"

"oh, yes, you clever girl," you noticed the change in her accent. initially, she spoke in an american accent. then, it changed to a french accent.

you raised an eyebrow. "french? what are you, a spy or something?"

she let out a sinister laugh. "well, yes. you could say that. i suppose since i'm about to kill you, i can tell you who i really am," well, there it was. maya's truth. what you'd been waiting for.

"my real name isn't maya. it's roberts. gabrielle roberts. i work for the french embassy, and was sent here to gain intel on wakanda and their military facilities. to get that close, i needed to get into the palace. and what better way than to seduce the queen?"

you laughed mockingly. "bullshit. shuri would've seen that coming a mile away,"

gabrielle sighed. "yes, you're right. she did. she was very skeptical of me when she first met me. i tried seducing her the old fashioned way, but she was entrapped by another woman. you, i believe."

"huh? excuse me??"

"did you not know? it's so obvious. i had to spend some time spying on shuri before i could approach her. she's in love with you."

you weren't buying it. you spent a decent 2 months telling yourself that shuri never wanted you that way and never will. and you refused to believe the word of a woman who lied about her identity to everyone.

"if she was so in love with me, then how did you bag her in the first place?"

"oh. simple. i drugged her."

"YOU WHAT?!"

"ah, relax. nothing too serious. although i had to keep giving her large doses for the drug to work. that lady's metabolism never takes a break,"

the strength of the black panther. shuri's body could break down complex chemicals within moments, so gabrielle had to continuously drug shuri to make sure she could still stay close to her, to gather all the intel she needed.

fortunately, she hadn't given shuri a single dose in over 6 hours, which was enough for the effects of the drug to completely wear off.

"so if you needed shuri for the intel, why'd you bring me here?"

"because, for the final part of my plan, i need to get access to the weaponry database. and as far as my research goes, you're the only one who can crack the code which will give me access to those records. so," she dragged your chair to the table and opened up a laptop in front of you.

"do it."

"do what?"

"open up those records. or i will blow your brains out," she shoved a gun to your head. you looked at gabrielle with wary eyes.

"dude, how stupid are you? how do you expect me to use a laptop if my fucking hands are tied behind my back?!" gabrielle sighed and moved to untie you. your wrist was swollen and bruised.

"i can't do it. my hand is busted. and besides, there's an encrypted code protecting foreign users from entering the database. it'll take months to break through it,"

"i don't have TIME for this!" gabrielle's voice echoed through the walls of the cave. she grabbed the taser and brought it to your abdomen, burning you with the current. silent tears ran down your cheeks. you couldn't die like this.

"i give you five minutes. figure it out, or i'll open that latch on the floor and flood the place. you have a fear of water, don't you? ah, it'll be hilarious watching you drown," with that, gabrielle walked away.

you started hyperventilating. things weren't looking so great for you. you weren't lying when you said the encrypted code would take months to break through. hell, it took nearly a year to make it that secure! you looked around the cave, trying to find a way to escape, to break through. the latch down opened up to water, but you had no idea how long you'd have to hold your breath until you'd reach the shore.

you left shuri some clues. the SOS message, the jewelry, the blood. you hoped that she'd find those.

ah, who am i kidding? she doesn't love me, she'll never love me. and now, i'm gonna die alone. why? cause i'm a paranoid bitch.

your five minutes were up and gabrielle walked back inside, an evil grin plastered on her face.

"time to die, whore."

you froze, accepting your fate. gabrielle lifted up her gun, ready to pull the trigger, when an explosion from behind sent her body hurtling in front. water and rocks splashed everywhere as you tried to see who was there.

shuri.

it was shuri. she first ran to you, her mask disappearing.

"sthandwa? are you okay?" she assessed you for any injuries, and got anxious as she saw your bleeding thigh and swollen hand.

"i'm fine, i promise," you replied, but you looked like you were gonna pass out. riri came from behind you and grabbed you gently, taking you outside where the royal talon fighter hovered, a medical team inside prepped to help you with any injuries.

"you drug me, lie to me, and harm the woman i love the most. give me one good reason why i shouldn't blow your face up right now," shuri glared gabrielle, hot rage coursing through her veins. the drugs were now completely out of her system, and she was ready to rip the spy's throat into shreds.

the mask of her suit hid her face as she lunged at the french woman, claws ripping at her chest. gabrielle let out a groan of pain. she tried to fight back, but the black panther was too strong. water began seeping through, and shuri knew she had to leave before she drowned as well. she considered helping gabrielle for a moment, before deciding that a) she was busted pretty bad and wasn't going to make it, and b) she was a threat to wakanda so there was really no point in saving her. the french embassy had come for wakanda before. they had to set an example, so that no other country would pull shit like that again.

shuri managed to get out just before the entire cave was flooded, and ordered the dora milaje to seal the exit, just in case.

the medical staff on the jet aided to your injuries, giving you some ointment and pain pills. before you knew it, you were dropped at the palace. you asked if you could be led to your apartment, but shuri insisted that you and riri stay at the palace for the night. too tired (and traumatised) to argue, you agreed and were shown to your quarters, where you laid down and were immediately taken over by exhaustion as you fell asleep.

***

rays of sunshine pooled through the large window as you slowly opened your eyes, getting up to see a tray sitting neatly on your bedside table. a bowl of oatmeal, topped with your favourite nut butter and fruits lay on the tray, along with the pain medication you were prescribed, a glass of water, some orange juice, and a note. you picked the note up first, instantly recognising the handwriting scribbled on it.

eat your breakfast, and call me once you're done

shuri <3

she drew a little heart next to her name. how cute. you got up to brush your teeth before scarfing down the food, juice, and medicine. seeing as you hadn't eaten in ages, your hunger made sense. as ordered to, you raised your kimoyo beads and gently tapped them to alert the queen.

"y/n! you're awake, how are you feeling?"

"pretty alright. i ate the breakfast you sent, took my meds, and i just got outta the shower. every part of my body is still in pain though,"

"don't worry, i'm on my way right now,"

"oh, no, shuri you don't have to--"

she hung up before you could finish. typical shuri.

a few minutes later, you heard a gentle knock on your door. "come in" you said softly. shuri's cute morning face popped up as she slowly made her way to your bed, sitting down next to you.

both of your backs were against the bed frame as you faced each other.

"hi," shuri muttered.

"hey,"

she didn't look up at you. slightly confused, you grabbed her chin and tilted her head upwards.

"why won't you look at me?"

her eyes started to water. "i guess i just feel guilty. if i had listened to you at first, i could've sent that french bitch away a long time ago. but you got hurt, because of me,"

"hey, hey..." you tried to console her. "don't blame yourself for this. you were drugged. we both know the great shuri udaku wouldn't fall for a stupid scam like that if she was in her senses," she let out a lugh after your comment and you smiled, happy that you could improve her mood.

as you got flashbacks from your cave encounter with gabriella, a specific thing she said crept up to your brain. and you knew you had to bring it up eventually.

"so, listen..." you fidgeted and shuri gently took your hand, intertwining your fingers together. it was a simple act you guys did as kids to show that you had each others backs. it always made your heart flutter.

"in the cave, when gabriella confessed to drugging you, she said it was because she wanted to seduce you but she couldn't do that while you were sober," shuri cringed when you said 'seduce' and you bit back a laugh at her expression.

"she said she couldn't seduce you without drugging you, because you were in love with me." shuri's head shot up as her eyes widened.

"now i don't know which drug she gave, or how much it affected your memory. but i'm pretty sure you didn't forget the day i told you i love you. and yes, i might not be as entirely over you as i said, but i'm okay with you not seeing me that way. i mean, i'll get over it i guess--"

she cut you off by smashing her lips against yours. it took you a moment to realise what was happening before you started to kiss back. you gently grabbed her shirt collar as she grabbed your waist, pulling you towards her lap, making you straddle her. you made out like that for a while before your need for oxygen interfered, causing you to pull away.

shuri smiled like a kid in a candy store. you smiled back.

"you won't believe how long i've wanted to do that. y/n, ever since the day i met you, i knew i was going to make you mine. how can someone not love you?" you giggled before kissing her again.

"so... are we girlfriends now?" you asked, the smile still stuck on your face.

"hmmm, well, let me think about it," you smacked her arm and she laughed.

"alright, alright, y/n y/l/n, my gorgeous princess, my sweetheart, my one and only, will you be my girlfriend? please?" you laughed and kissed her with all your heart. when you parted again, you chucked to yourself.

"what's so funny, sthandwa?"

"i'm just picturing riri's reaction when we tell her this. she's gonna lose the last bit of sanity she has left," both of you laughed at the image before lying down to cuddle, enjoying each other's embrace for the rest of the day.

*lil bonus scene as a sorry for taking so damn long to upload this*

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" riri yelled out as you and shuri laughed. her reaction was everything you pictured and more.

"FINALLY!! GODDAMN YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THE SHIT I'VE BEEN THROUGH!! SHURI YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS A THIRSTY ASS BITCH!! SHOULD'VE HEARD HER FANTASISING ABOUT THIS VIBRANIUM STRAP SHE TOLD ME ABOUT--"

"RIRI!!" you yelled and chased after her in shuri's lab. the queen laughed to herself.

bast, she's crazy. but she's mine. and i'd do anything for her.

#shuri x reader #black panther #wakanda forever #shuri #letitia wright #shuri x black reader #queen of simps does it again #Spotify

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c-alliumduo-appologist · 1 month

Text

Well I left the dump fandom and long while ago so i wanted to post an old wip fic. It was such a passion project but I never finished it because of technos death so I'll leave it here (and it's concept notes).

!! Wilburs mentioned a few times so don't be alarmed this was from like 2022, I promise I don't support that twat !!

The roaring sound of the crowd was something Techno never got used to.

They were always too loud.

That combined with the curse of his crown the voices of 100,000 people constantly yelling around him, always led to migraines that would last for days.

Yet he continues to fight in the arenas when he's invited.

He has too, it's the only thing that calms the voices.

It keeps him away from his family, he hates that. He wants so bad to stay in the castle and listen to Wilbur play his latest song, or watch Dad write in his study. Let Mom tell him stories like when he was little. He prays for the day he has perfect silence, because that's the day he can look at his little brother and not feel shame. The voices hurt Tommy and now Tommy hates him. Tommy's only 10 he doesn't need to know about the voices, it's already confusing enough for him to wonder why his brother held a sword to his throat after he asked to play.

Techno hates himself for it, he wants things to be different. He wants to be a good brother, because he loves Tommy. He really does.

"BLOOD GOD TECHNOBLADE! TODAY IS THE DAY YOU FALL FROM YOUR PEDESTAL!" The crowd screams, they seem to really favor the new guy lately. He hopes they aren't getting tired of him, that would be bad for his name. "Sure, like I'm gonna lose to a homeless man." He's sure if the guy wasn't wearing a mask he would've seen his eye twitch. "I'm NOT homeless." Techno just laughs. "Wow! So you think homeless are bad? Cancel this man, get him out of here." The new guy started studdering trying to defend himself Techno assumes to stay in public favor.

"What, no! I didn't say that, you're putting words in my mouth." Techno would've responded but his thoughts were cut short by the announcer.

"All right! Our match today is the All Mighty Blood God verses, our newest fight who's been quickly rising up the ranks.. Dream Wastaken!"

Techno blinks almost dumbfounded, "Wastaken? What kind of title is that? It sounds dumb."

Techno must have struck a nerve with that remark, Dream suddenly went still and took his position.

"I'll have your head Blood God," he could see a green glow from under his mask.

"HA, like hell you will"

The announcer signals the start and Techno lets himself go and all he sees is red.

Dream raises his sword and stabs towards Technos abdomen. Techno takes his axe and swings to hit the blade away. He ends up hitting the handle of the sword cutting deep into Dreams hands

Dream staggers back dropping his sword and clutching his hands. He inhales sharply the audience collectively gasps.

---

Yeah not much writen ik but here's the plans I had written in my drafts, it's so nostalgic to reread.

it starts out as Sbi + Mumza but techno and tommy get separated from Phil, Kristen, and Wilbur

(Wilbur is 17, Techno is 15 so hes less than wilbur because fuck you, and Tommy is 11)

So it's parentsduo + Wilbur and then also Bedrock bros, eventually they fins their way back to eachother. Techno and Tommy used to have this kinda tense relationship, they both cared alot about each other but Tommy always got along with Wilbur more. (Techno wasnt jealous of that, not at all.) but they just thought the other disliked them, and it's bothered them for years and now it's time for Techno to be cool and strong big brother for tommy. Being there for when he has nightmares to tell him stories, or reminding him that they WILL find the rest if their family. Running from zombies with the only weapons you have being swords and bows is a little bit difficult. but he does have one thing, his axe that was gifted to him by a neighboring kingdoms prince. To replace the one that was ruined in a duel he participated in on their behalf. Which they may or may not run into that prince and his betrothed (also his son?!?!?!?)along the way... Wilbur misses his brothers every single day, no matter how much his parents try to comfort him that they will be okay and that Techno is capable. He just can't shake the feeling that at every waking moment that he's not looking for them. They're getting hurt. He wishes it was him and Techno that got separated, cause then atleast Tommy would be with phil and Kristen. He wouldn't need to worry about his brother. He knows Techno will protect Tommy with his life.. but that's what he's worried about. If Techno dies protecting Tommy then what happens after? Tommy is left wandering untill inevitably hes... So he hopes Techno doesn't have to do soemthing that wreckless Because if he does, he'll lose BOTH of his brothers. and personally he'd rather not have that become a reality."

#dsmp #tommyinnit #technoblade #philza minecraft #uhhh #idk how to tag this #wip fic #zombie #zombie apocolypse au #royalty au #old fic #abandoned #slay

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wutheringmights · 1 year

Text

"We’ll Meet Again (Some Sunny Day)” - Unfinished Bonus Links Draft

Over half a year ago, I swore that I was going to write a story based on @ezdotjpg‘s @bonus-links, which I never finished. This is in part due to a) me being absolutely devoured by CTB, b) me realizing that this story was gonna take 20k to tell at a minimum, and c) me being struck with a wave of insecurity; in short, I got really worried that I was not writing War and Spirit correctly and was projecting too much CTB onto them.

I had resolved to wait until I see them in the comic so that I could get a glimpse of their dynamic in action, but that might take a while. So in the meantime, here’s what I have.

Some Notes:

Obviously, this is just a draft so the writing/editing may not be up to snuff

I tried my best to gleam mannerisms and personalities from some posts Em made way back when, which I am unsure is still canon or not

Spirit signs in order to work around a severe stutter for these sounds: B, S, Th, Ch, St, G, W; I based a lot of how he talks around that stutter on how I deal with my own speech impediment (which is not a stutter) (so take it with a grain of salt)

War has a cockney accent that, in the worst decision of my life, I attempted to write out phonetically; he then switches to something more posh and British sounding

Official Summary For The (Completed) Story:

Spirit and War have always haunted each other.

(Or: Spirit can see ghosts. War treats him like one.)

----

Spirit crouched before the engine, oil drenched up to the elbow when the bell over the workshop door chimed. Alfonzo typically took care of the stray window shopper who didn’t realize an train garage wasn’t a store, but Alfonzo was out on a run that took him to the farthest reaches of the Snow Realm. By all accounts, it was Spirit’s job to greet the shopper.

But Spirit was precariously balancing about six different wrenches, trying to keep the loose cogs in place as he fixed one of the engine’s inner mechanisms. He almost had it too. He couldn’t abandon it now, not even to return his workshop to its tranquility.

“S-sorry!” he called out, swearing when his gloves slipped on the largest wrench, causing the cog it held to slip out of place. “Just g-give—hold on for a moment!”

The customer didn’t say anything, but they didn’t leave either. Spirit could hear them meander around the messy space, observing the walls covered in framed pictographs and the shelves brimming with engine parts. Spirit did his best to ignore then, but his attention helplessly narrowed on the faint clinking of chain mail and the soft intake of breath from someone who was surprised.

Spirit didn’t necessarily hate noise. Trains were loud. But it was easier to concentrate when he was the only one making a ruckus.

Admitting defeat, he began tightening the cogs and screws until he could safely remove his hands. He sighed as he stood, wiping the sweat off his brow. Belatedly, he remembered the oil on his hands, and grumbled as he shed his gloves and pulled a handkerchief from his overalls pocket.

He blinked. Sometime between starting this project and now, the morning sun had disappeared in favor of velvety night. Yet, someone had turned on the oil lamps, dousing the garage in suffused orange light. The shopper must have lit the lamps.

Slowly, he turned hands already rising to sign his question. But before his fingers could start the first sign, he was met with a man too pretty to be real.

Pretty really was the best way to put it. He was a decent height, but not necessarily tall—not that Spirit, having not grown an inch since he hit double digits in age, didn’t need to crane his neck to make eye contact. His lashes were long, curtaining half-closed eyes as he bent down to the base of the last oil lamp. A match glowed between his fingers, the flame bursting when it caught the gas. The lamp lit up.

The stranger stood upright. Eyes bluer than the ocean flickered to Spirit. His face held a sophisticated gauntness that made even the act of blowing out the flame elegant.

Spirit fidgeted, suddenly self-conscious of how dirty he was in comparison.

The stranger was dressed to the nines in a well-kept green tunic, with a blue cape draped around his shoulders like tinsel on a tree, pinned in place by an opulent broch. Even his boots, the ones that had echoed around the workshop, were shiny with fresh polish.

A man like this wouldn’t normally look twice at him, even when he washed the oil away and put on his castle guard uniform. But this one smiled so brilliantly that the ornaments on his body couldn’t compare. “It heaven and hell is ya,” the stranger said, flicking the match away. His accent was thicker than molasses. It made every word sound long and chewed out. “It looks like ya kept yer promise, conduc'aw.”

Spirit stared. “I’m sorry?” he signed. “Who are you?”

The stranger’s face fell. His boot scuffed the ground in an aborted step back.

Spirit frowned. With the handkerchief, he scrubbed the oil from his face. Seems like this stranger really thought he was too good for the likes of him.

The stranger cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said and, like that, his accent was totally different. Each vowel and consonant was crisper than fresh laundry, each syllable perfectly creased into place. It threw Spirit through another loop. “I seemed to have been confused for a moment there. Are you perhaps the Royal Engineer they call Link?”

Spirit nodded.

The stranger seemed to study him for a moment longer.

Spirit scrubbed his brow again, trying to get the oil off his skin. Just who was this guy?

Finally, stranger smiled. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand. It was pristine. Even his nails were finely filed. “I am also named Link, but I am called the Hero of War. Tell me—are you prepared to perform your duty as a Hero of Hylia?”

Spirit stared. “What?”

Line Break

The Hero of War said to call him the captain, or perhaps sir if Spirit wanted something more succinct. But that last part was said with a rakish smile, so Spirit rolled his eyes and settled on captain.

From there, War’s good humor disappeared. Face drawn, he explained everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot—portals had appeared in his time, and someone named Lana had handed him a map detailing where in Hyrule’s convoluted history they led to (actual Hyrule, not a reinvention like New Hyrule). War didn’t know why the portals had appeared, but he had been in a conflict many years ago that had a similar mechanism.

“Get your personal affairs in order and make your goodbyes,” War said when his explanation was done. It was a weekend night, and chatter of couples and friends finding entertainment for the night drifted through the workshop’s windows. “Take your time, but we should leave before the new day.”

“Who said I’m coming with you?” Spirit signed.

War arched a brow. His lips quirked into something that was almost amused. “Because you wouldn’t let anyone walk into danger. Not even a stranger.”

Spirit scowled and signed, “What makes you say that?”

“This is far from my first encounter with another sacred hero.” War meandered around the shop, making tiny faces at the hodgepodge of half-made machineries. Whatever congeniality he had built up soured the moment he realized there was black residue on his fingers. He pulled a worn, red handkerchief from his pocket.

Spirit’s attention narrowed on it. It was frayed to the point where little flecks of broken thread fell from it like rain. If there was ever a print on the fabric, it had long been drowned out by noxious black stains. The captain didn’t seem to notice them, primly wiping his fingers clean as he said, “We are all beholden to the same virtues.”

“I’m not a hero,” Spirit signed. “I’m a conductor.”

“I know a hero when I see one.”

“You’re looking for someone else.” Spirit marched over to the door, turning around so that War could see his hands. “You need to leave.” He ended on a curt jerk of the hand before yanking the door to the garage open, gesturing for War to reenter the bustling streets of Castle Town.

War frowned, but something else in his face shifted as well. His charm had disappeared, and Spirit heard a warning in the back of his brain as War folded up the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “You are Link of Aboda Village. You have always been able to see spirits and ghosts, though you ignored your sixth sense in favor of apprenticing as a conductor and train engineer. Through hard work and study, you became New Hyrule’s youngest ever Royal Engineer.”

War walked up to him, ever footfall a punch to the gut. “However, your first months as the Royal Engineer were put on hold when the Spirit Tracks disappeared as well as the Princess Zelda. Luckily, your senses allowed you to see that she too had become a ghost when a dark demon ejected her from her body.”

Spirit’s hands shook too much to sign. They became fists at his side as he stuttered out, “St-st-st—”

“You fought the Demon Malladus and rescued the Princess Zelda. You restored the Spirit Tracks across Hyrule. You were given charge of a sacred train as well as a sacred sword. You are the successor of the Hero of Winds and an incarnation of the Hero’s Spirit.” He stopped right in Spirit’s face, close enough to make Spirit feel insignificant. “And you dare to tell me that I have the wrong person? Rest assured, Link of Aboda. I know more about you than you realize.”

Spirit stuttered over a few more syllables. Forget that. Without bothering to vocalize or sign, he pointed out the door. Get out.

War stared down at him for a moment longer. The corner of his mouth twitched the way Zelda’s did whenever she didn’t want anyone to know how mad she was. But his eyes were a different story. They softened, losing their intensity so quickly that it threw Spirit off kilter. “I’ll leave then,” he said gently. “If that’s what you desire.”

He stepped back, giving Spirit a little space. War managed a little smile before miming the tipping of his hat. “Good day, conductor. May the Spirits of Good guide you.”

His blue scarf trailed behind him as he left, entering the dark streets of Castle Town.

Spirit slammed the door back shut and pulled his gloves back on. He was retired from the hero business, thank you very much. If Zelda couldn’t convince him to join the Castle Guard, then War couldn’t convince him to drop his entire life and go on some cross dimensional adventure.

But staring at his abandoned engine, Spirit couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to pick up his wrench and get back at it. All he could see was the gleam of the pommel at War’s side, how genuinely hurt he seemed when Spirit had turned him down.

How did War know his story? The only people in New Hyrule who knew everything about Malludus was himself and Zelda.

Did that even matter when War seemed like the type to throw himself into battle headfirst, heedless of whether he lived or died?

Spirit groaned and tossed the wrench aside. Barely grabbing his keys, he ran out of the workshop. Under the streetlamps, drunkards emptying the taverns glowed gold. Spirit stood on the cobblestone street, searching for the long blue scarf in the crowd.

“Hey.” Behind him, War leaned against the side of the garage. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he chewed a piece of candy on the side of his mouth. He grinned. “Changed your mind?”

Spirit frowned. “Give me three days,” he signed. “I need to make preparations.”

War almost choked on his candy. He banged a fist on his chest and spat it out. “Three days? We can’t wait that long!”

Alfonzo was due to return from his run by then. It would also be enough time for Spirit to finish his project and arrange replacements for the runs he was already scheduled for, as well as contact Niko and Zelda. He didn’t think War would understand that, but he hardly signed, “I need to get some things done” when War sighed.

“Well…” He mulled over it for a moment. “I have no choice but to agree. Three days it is.”

Line Break

Spirit was no stranger to ghosts. There was one now that frequented his apartment a few blocks from the workshop. It was the lingering spirit of the old woman who lived there previously, and she hated how dirty he kept his space. She seemed determined not to move on until Spirit learned some housekeeping. It was easier to just sleep at the garage.

But War couldn’t sleep at the garage. There was only one bed and it was harder than a sheet of steel: unbefitting of a man well-acquainted with the finer things in life. So Spirit had to take him home. He had half a moment to be embarrassed by the number of dishes he’d left to mold in the sink as well as the pile of oil-covered clothes and half-finished projects he’d left strewn about before War sighed and unpinned his scarf.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Of course, of course, of course.” He folded it nearly on the table, then added his sword and shield next to it. Then he rolled up his sleeves and started picking up the mess.

Spirit stuttered his own swear before rushing to help.

“Sorry I’m such a bad host,” Spirit signed when War did the dishes.

“Nonsense. It’s not as though I had given you any warning.” War scrubbed at a plate like he wanted to do much worse to it. “I remember when I first began living alone. It took me quite some time to master my own space. Speaking of which, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

War paused. “Oh.” He set the plate aside. “You are much too young—to live alone, I mean.”

Spirit clicked his tongue and signed, “And not fight some evil?”

War barked a laugh. “If anything, you’re much too old for that.”

Spirit didn’t know what he meant. So while they did laundry under the midnight moon, War told fantastical stories of a hero who had fallen from the sky and the children who followed in his footsteps—their progenitor, their legacy.

The next three days were spent

#i literally haven't touched this since hold on let me check my doc #APRIL???? I HAVEN'T TOUCHED THIS SINCE APRIL????????#DAMN OK OK OK OK OK #I'm sorry but ctb is literally all i have time for right now #bonus links #bonus links fanfiction #bonus links spirit #bonus links war #bl spirit #bl war #legend of zelda #loz #loz fanfic #me writing #fanfic draft #yes the title is a reference to the vera lynn song it's relevant #we'll meet again

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sincerely-sofie · 1 month

Note

The finishing of this fanfic has left me with some pretty mixed emotions. On the one hand, I dont want it to end. It's such an incredible piece of work and even though I finally committed to reading it a few weeks ago, it already feels like such a significant part of my life. On the other hand, I'm a little glad that it's over. FAR from the sense it was bad (I'll steal your liver if thats how you interpret it) but moreso in the sense that it was like a good crying session. It's something that a lot of us (or I assume a lot of us) typically want to avoid even though we know its good for us, and satisfying after the fact. It's like catharsis in a way. Endings aren't always a great feeling in the moment, but it's something that we can look back on with a fondness.

I'm so glad I found this work. I'm being completely serious when I say that this fanfic, and the other content you make, has changed my life for the better. Its helped me reconnect with that love I have for creativity after nearly a decade of not making anything even though I wanted to. It's helped pulled me out of a few ruts of depression. It's helped me realize that I'm not actually emotionally stunted (per my own conclusions) and be more willing to cry instead of burying those feelings. In the past I would just, kill these kinda thoughts before they got far because of how much I wanted to avoid crying. Much less actually writing them down, or express them to someone else. But now, I've been crying the whole time I write this, and for the first time in, I think ever, I'm okay with that. I know we don't actually know each other, but you've genuinely helped me become a better person with the things you make. Thank you so much for everything you've done Sofie. hey look! I got your name right!

But enough about me. I feel like it's getting indulgent at this point. (I've gotten dehydrated with how much ive cried writing this and from what I can tell, you cry a lot more than I do. So go drink some water first, and then) I wanna hear your thoughts. What are your thoughts and feelings about your work being finished? Do you have plans to take a break from creative endevors for a while, or are you gonna keep going? Are you going to be expanding more on this and other au's, different fanworks or move into something completely your own? Whatever the case may be, I'm excited to see what more you are going to come up with!

From the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of everyone else, Thank you for everything.

It's so surreal to have posted that final chapter. I finished the first draft almost 100 days ago exactly, and I spent a number of days after completing it kind of adrift. I'd go to my computer every morning like I had during the month prior and sit down, ready to write, only to remember that I was actually supposed to be taking a break before I made the final edits. It didn't click in my head that I had actually done it… until a couple weeks later when it hit me like a truck that I had an entire completed manuscript sitting in my Google Docs. I think I was making myself lunch at that moment, and I had to bolt to lie down on the floor and put my legs up against the wall because I was ready to pass out at the realization.

This feels pretty similar. For me, The Present is a Gift— the main fanfic, at least— was finished in mid-January. But the process of uploading it and agonizing over what people thought of every passing update wouldn't be formally done until about 3 months later. It still hasn't clicked in my head that I won't be posting a new update once Tuesday rolls around.

On the subject of taking a break— I've actually been taking a break, at least partway! I've barely written anything after I finished TPiaG's first draft, and I haven't drawn much “serious” art, for lack of a better word, since I started my blog. I've still been making things, yes, but scattered oneshots and sketchy pieces without solid lineart are not my typical fare. I'm usually a lot more “exact” with what I make— words fail me here— I hope I'm not being too vague! I might take a brief break as I finish up the winter semester, but that would be less a break from creating and more of an “OH MY WORD I NEED TO FOCUS ON NOTHING BUT PASSING THESE COURSES” kinda thing.

TPiaG (along with its derivative AUs) is still very much a living project to me— there's a lot more stories the characters have in them, even if I struggle to envision a full-on sequel. I'm absolutely going to answer the asks relating to it that I've received over the months along with any I continue to receive, and if I get any ideas for comics or oneshots here and there, I'll make them. As for what's officially next up on the Sincerely Sofie menu, I'm planning to make a visual novel that's a lot more meaty than the last one I made. I'm not sure if it will be original or based on TPiaG— but a visual novel is the medium I'm planning on!

I'm so overwhelmed by your kindness. I truly don't have any words. This project started off as something private to help distract me from a depressive episode and to process trauma, and it's become so much more. I'm so glad it was able to help you. Catharsis was the keyword for TPiaG— I wanted it to uproot difficult emotions and help people start to heal from them, but I never dreamed it would really help anyone but myself. So to hear it was able to provide you with that is unbelievably meaningful to me.

I gave myself the goal somewhat recently to let myself cry whenever the urge strikes me. I used to go months without crying, and whenever I did shed tears, it was alone in my room while muffling the few sounds I accidentally let slip. I'm a natural crybaby, but I had schooled myself into thinking for a number of reasons that it was bad to cry— that it was selfish, or attention-seeking, or weak— so I've been trying to reclaim my teary-eyed identity. It's been difficult, but it's so freeing to let myself feel things fully. All of this is to say: let the tears fall. I've helped more people by crying than my stoicism ever did.

Thanks again. I can't properly word my gratitude, but know that it's overwhelming :,>

#sofie answers asks #the present is a gift au

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froggywritesstuff · 3 months

Text

i wish you were a girl | teddy lobo

ship/pairing: Teddy Lobo x male!reader

fandom: renfield

warnings: swearing, internalised homophobia, mentions of reader having sex, homophobic slurs, mentions of fisting, mentions of blowjobs, asshole behaviour, mentions of decapitating, mentions of suffocating/strangling, unsatisfying ending, mentions of vomiting, cringe, extremely out of character, barely proofread

word count: 1101

A/N: for any fem readers seeing this, this is a mlm oriented one shot. this has been in my drafts for too long and i hate looking at it

"I wish you were a girl. I wish you were a fucking girl."

The words hit you like a cinder block. This isn't new information, he's implied it on multiple occasions. But hearing the confirmation, hearing the words come out of Teddy's mouth invokes a pain you've never felt before. You don't even know what to think. You're pissed at first, summoning your best poker face as rage bubbles in your chest. You wish he wasn't a whore who couldn't go one day without fucking some girl he met two seconds ago. You wish he would go to therapy once in a blue moon instead of using you as his personal punching bag. You wish he didn't have you suck his dick or fist his ass till his eyes roll back while he calls you a fag and whines about how he feels so disgusted with himself for finding you attractive. But you don't throw that in his face, do you?

Your rage fizzles down as he stares at you, a rare, vulnerable look in his eyes. When you're not angry, you're left with the dreadful feeling his words give you. You despise yourself for it but for some reason you want him to love you. You crave any crumbs of his attention, whether it's good or bad. You wanna be everything he wants. Which you now know, is not you as you are. You wish you were a girl too now. To some extent at least. You've had the displeasure of seeing how he treats the women he fucks. Or rather the lack of treatment. You've heard him say countless times how he ghosts whatever poor woman he was with as soon as he gets soft, as if it's some kind of brag. At least he's talking to you. Would he treat you any better if you were a girl? He's kept you around for longer than he's been in a relationship (if you can even call it that) with a woman, so you had to be doing something right. But Teddy Lobo is the most unpredictable person you know. Some of the things he does and says makes you want to decapitate him, carve out his brain and study it. Or shrink him down to the size of a mouse and send him in a maze and study his every movement. Or grab him by the shoulders and shake him to see if he bubbles up like a bottle of soft drink. Would doing any of these things give you any of the answers you want? Who's to say? What you do know is that it's been too many seconds since Teddy spoke, and the silence might be indicating that he wants a response.

How the fuck are you meant to respond to that? You know you want to respond by suffocating him with a pillow and leaving, but that may not be the correct response. Is there even a correct response to this? Probably not. But the last thing you wanna do is sit in silence until Teddy gets bored and asks you to shove your tongue down his throat while you stroke his cock. Or something.

"I know." you look down. The last thing you wanted to do was look at him.

"Yeah?" he says softly. In his defence, how was he meant to respond to that?

"I-" you go to stop yourself from speaking, your mind racing with different possibilities of his reactions. Once again, Teddy's unpredictability was not working in your favour. With a quick decision, you decide you don't care how he'll react. If he was gonna put you in an uncomfortable position, why couldn't you do the same? "I wish that didn't bother me so much... I wish I wasn't so hung up on what you thought of me." As soon as the words leave your mouth you want to throw up. You think of all the different ways he might respond. Look at you weirdly, disgusted by the sudden vulnerability. Call you a fag. Degrade you in some way. Or just completely ignore it and ask you to fuck him. You definitely don't expect his response.

"You care what I think of you?" he asks, not in a bashful, 'Jason the popular sports guy who all the girls want likes that I read books/skateboard/partake in a slightly niche hobby and don't wear makeup' way, but genuinely surprised. And a little confused. As far as he was concerned, he was just an afterthought in your life, and you just stuck around either for the sex, for protection, or out of fear of him and his family. He'll admit that it makes him feel powerful that he could have such an effect on someone. Especially you.

"Yes." You want to strangle him. Here you are carefully analysing your thoughts and he's blissfully unaware of your feelings. It's not like you shout every thought you have at him but you figured he had to have a fraction of a clue that he was making you feel this way. "Fuck you for that by the way."

"What do you mean- why?" you almost forget that he’s part of one of the most powerful crime families when you hear how desperate his voice sounds.

"Why? You've ruined my life."

"No, why do you care about me?"

"I never said that.”

”But you do.” he says, way too confidently and you’re almost embarrassed that he’s right, “Why?”

“Because sometimes, some people grow attached to people they constantly have sex with."

"Yeah but I'm a fucking asshole to you."

"Yeah that's not news. But I don't have an explanation for why I feel anything for you."

Teddy doesn't say anything. It's unusual, him being so quiet. You can tell he's thinking when you look at him, like he's actually thinking before speaking for once. That too is unusual. And right now you have no desire to find out what he's thinking of saying. You clear your throat and begin making your way to the door.

"Are we done here? Cause I... I think I'm gonna go..."

His mouth falls open, and there's a moment of silence before he mutters a nonchalant 'uh-huh'. You nod, and push open the door, about to leave when he stops you.

"Wait." you look at him. He's trying so hard to look like he doesn't care. Like he's not affected by what you've said. He meets your eyes, before immediately looking away, "Um, never mind... I-I'll see you around."

You nod hesitantly, mumbling a goodbye as you shut the door behind you.

#i hope he explodes #fanfiction #froggywritesstuff #male reader #x reader #teddy lobo #teddy lobo x reader #teddy lobo x male reader #renfield 2023 #renfield #gay #mlm #tedward lobo #tedward lobo x reader #ben schwartz x reader #ben schwartz

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literaticat · 7 months

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My debut came out a couple months ago and has sold over 16,000 copies so far, which I thought was pretty good? But I never hit any lists, sales are starting to slow down a bit, my imprint isn't promoting my book anymore, and my option offer is for 35% less than my original deal. I'm feeling pretty pessimistic and frustrated (which I suspect might be normal based on talking to other published friends, but it still sucks) and would appreciate any words of advice or encouragement you have for authors hitting the post-release sads.

(I found this in my drafts and for all I know the OP has solved their problem by now, or written in with a similar-sounding but different ask that I answered -- sorry! But hey, I kinda like it, so here we go anyway.)

I don't know if I have it in me to be a rah-rah cheerleader sweetheart here, my advice/encouragement might be a bit more of a cold-water-to-the-face type deal.

-- You are sad about "never hitting any lists" -- but most books don't, you know that, right? Nobody expected your debut book to hit a bestseller list. If it had, they absolutely would have celebrated like hell, but nobody was counting on that -- so maybe recalibrate your expectations around those kinds of things. Lists, awards, etc, are out of your control -- file them under "not happening" -- so if one day they do, you can be appropriately thrilled!

-- Sales are starting to slow down and your imprint isn't promoting it anymore -- sure, that happens, and is normal. Most of the "buzz" around books happens in "the release window" -- aka, near release time when the book is new -- at this point your book is no longer new, and your publisher has newer books to promote. While YOU can and should keep talking about your book to the extent you're comfortable, it's not surprising the publisher has kinda moved on to other books. (Though of course whenever cool things happen, like you get an award, or a great review, or whatever, that will be another potential "buzz" moment -- and you never know when some random TikTokker doing a review of your book will go viral or something! But again, you can't control that, so you kinda need to let it go.)

-- You've been offered less money for your option book -- that for sure happens, particularly when the first book sold for an unusually high price. Like if you got, say, 80k for the first book, which is significantly above "normal" for most books, and now they are offering 55k for the next book, (which is still above normal for most books!) it probably means you are just not close to earning out the first book yet, OR, this next book is a real departure and in a less-popular genre or something. Am I right about any of this?

In any case, though what they offered is out of your control, there IS a certain amount of control you have over next steps. I'd suggest you talk to your agent about it. Is what they offered insulting / way off-base for the kind if book that it is? Would it be a good idea to put a pin in this and wait it out to see if you earn out this year? Should you decline the offer and try your luck elsewhere? OR, is this actually a good offer for the kind of book it is, and a good publisher/editor, and you DO want to proceed? I don't know the answers here at all, obviously, since I am not in your shoes and don't know all the info -- but hopefully your agent will have great advice for you.

Do you see a theme here?

The things that are out of your control are legion, and while it's totally natural to have feelings about them, it's quite draining to give all your emotional energy over to freaking out about them long-term. Indulging long-term frustration and pessimism is damaging to your mental health, and keeps you from doing things that are actually IN your control. (Like, writing a killer next book, for example!) -- so I say, feel your feelings, but also, do what you have to do to let them go so you can move forward.

Let's do the serenity prayer, Publishing Edition:

Book Gods, grant me the serenity to accept the things that are out of my control -- the courage and energy to do the things that are in my control -- and the wisdom to know the difference.

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strawberryicebreakers · 9 months

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Hello, sorry to bother you but I'm a bit curious about the UHF fanfic you mentioned a while ago. Has it been updated since?

I haven't gotten around to it just yet; I got bit by the ted lasso bug, blinked, and now I'm nearly 40k into a fic with no signs of switching over to a different WIP :(

that being said, it is incredibly nice to see that people want to read my writing :') I do, eventually, want to finish the fic, but with the current WIP I'm working on and the semester starting up [yay college!], it doesn't look like I'll get to finish it anytime soon.

as a condolences/sneak peak, I'll put what I've got so far under the cut. it's about 7.1k, and it is a very, very rough draft, but again, I'm very thankful for the kind words I've gotten from people concerning the fic and want to show it! if you have any questions, feel free to hit me with them :)

Three months in, and Robert still couldn’t believe the station hadn’t crashed and burned. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust George, or Pamela, for that matter, but it seemed too good to be true. It made no sense to him that the same universe that let him flunk out of college and lose every minimum-wage job he’d ever held was the same universe that gave him a television station and said “hey, go nuts!”

It made no sense, but in all honesty, nothing in his life seemed to make that much sense to him these days. Just the other day, he’d had a group of teenagers break into the building in the middle of the night, probably trying to find a place to smoke, and got chased out by some robotic behemoth Philo’d built in the back of his station control room-turned-laboratory, all while having not told anyone he’d come back to begin with. He’d come in the next morning to see the door off the hinges and a hunk of metal with a wagging tail getting behind-the-ear scratches from Pamela.

Pamela, who was slowly becoming another tally in favor of his life turning upside down.

Ever since the night Channel 8 went off the air, she’d started paying attention to him, and it was beginning to concern him. Before, she’d said “good morning” and “good night,” or even the occasional question about any plans he might have, but over the past weeks, she’d turned her charm on to the highest setting possible. Despite the weather turning cold, her skirts grew shorter, her heels taller, and she’d started lingering by his desk for much longer than it took to ask him where the Rolodex went.

Privately, he’d thought that was more of a question for Stanley, not him, but he didn’t want to embarrass her by pointing it out.

All in all, though, he knew he’d have to mention it at some point, if only to soothe his own conscience. The last thing he needed was to find her doodling hearts and “Mrs. Pamela Steckler” in her broadcast notes.

He glanced up at the clock and saw that all of a single hour had passed since he’d arrived. He’d started coming in early, around eight in the morning, to make sure the morning rerun segments ran smoothly; if it had the added benefit of getting an hour to himself before anyone else showed up, well, he wasn’t complaining.

The scrape of the door on the tile floor that pulled him out of his reverie told him that someone else had arrived, and the click of a heel announced who it was.

“Good morning!”

“Hey, Pamela,” he called out. “Any trouble with the drive?”

“Nah,” she said, pulling her coat off and hanging it on the rack. “Just some awful fog. I could barely see the street!”

Through the lattice, Robert watched her rifle through her desk drawers, pulling out a few pens and her notepad. At his desk, he did the same, and began to look through the show proposals for the spring schedule; not reading them, just counting the envelopes. “Anything interesting to cover today?”

“The uzhe,” she said. “The shelter’s doing a PSA for families looking to adopt a pet for Christmas and I get to go down and get fur all over my legs.”

“Look on the bright side, Pam,” he said. “You get to play with puppies, and George and I are stuck down here, puppy-less. You have to admit, one seems a lot more fun than the other.”

She turned, swiveling her chair over to look at him through the lattice. “You saying you want to come down with me, Bobby?”

“No,” he said, a bit too quick to be polite. “No, I -, uh, I’ve got to stay up here. Keep everything in line, you know?” He held up the papers to her with a shrug. “You really think George wants to read these?”

He sent a quick prayer up, hoping she hadn’t seen George all but club him over the head the other night when he’d mentioned splitting the proposals in half and reading them separately. Reading what the people of Tulsa wanted to see on the TV was half the alleged fun of the job, and reading them together, laughing about it, made it borderline bearable.

She stood, walking over to his desk and perching on the edge. “Come on,” she said, smiling. “It’s me, you, and a bunch of cute little animals. What’s not to love?”

“I said no, Pamela.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “You’d really rather be here?”

“I really would rather be here,” he said. “I can’t ditch work to hang out with you.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Pamela looked down at him, smiling.

“What?”

“I mean,” she said, curling a lock of hair ‘round her finger, “if work’s the problem, we could always hang outside of work hours. Grab dinner, maybe a movie?”

“I -”

“I think Back to the Future two’s playing at the theater near my place. You ever see the first one? I always thought the guy who played Marty, the Fox guy, was pretty funny. He’s on Family Ties, too, and -”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just -,” he sighed. “I just can’t.”

She pushed herself off his desk, and he saw her face begin to flush. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I’ve got a job, I’m nice, and frankly, I’m not too bad to look at, so what’s your deal?”

“Well, I’m your boss, Pamela,” he said. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“Fine,” she said. “If you weren’t my boss, would you date me?”

“No, but -”

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No -”

“Then what gives?” She slunk down into George’s chair with a groan, threading her hand through her hair. “I mean, is it my voice? My makeup? Shit, do I wear too much makeup?”

“You’re beautiful,” Robert said. “And your voice is fine, Pam. We wouldn’t put you on the air if it wasn’t.”

She huffed. “If it’s none of that, then what is it?”

“He’s gay, Pamela.”

They both jumped, nearly falling out of their chairs.

“Fuck, Philo,” Robert cursed, “how long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Philo mused. He hummed while he worked, some odd little tune Robert couldn’t place while sticking a screwdriver into what looked like three batteries taped to a piece of glass. “And Pamela has an uncle like you, Robert. She wouldn’t have been rude about it, had you told her yourself.”

“How do you know about my uncle?” Pamela asked. “I haven’t said anything about him to you, or anyone here.” She turned, looking back at him. “He’s right, though.”

“Philo, you can’t say stuff like that,” Robert wheezed. He felt his heart racing under his shirt as if he’d run from one end of the station to the next, and tried to get himself to calm down.

For what it was worth, the older man looked genuinely confused. “I can’t?”

“No, you can’t,” he said. “Some people wouldn’t take that information very well.”

He considered it for a minute, then nodded. “My apologies, Robert.”

“Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“You have my word.” He pressed a hand to the right side of his lab coat, and gave a slight bow. With that, Philo walked away, returning to the back of the station to do god knows what, and left Robert alone with Pamela, who stared straight at him.

He knew she’d have questions; hell, he still had questions, sometimes, and it would be better to get the awkward part over with. “Whatever it is you’re trying to figure out how to ask, just ask it.”

“If you liked girls, would you like me?”

“For God’s sake, Pam.”

She giggled. “I’m sorry, I had to ask!”

“If I wake up tomorrow wanting to date a woman,” Robert said, smiling despite himself, “you’re the first on my list.”

“Yes!” She pumped a fist in the air. “I knew it!”

“Any man would be lucky to have you,” he said. “You could choose any man you’d ever met, and chances are, they’d treat you like a princess.” He picked up the papers that had fallen from his hand when Philo’d appeared. “Not me, though. Maybe not Stanley, either.”

“You think he’s gay?”

“No,” he said, unfolding the first proposal. “I just think you can do better.”

She stayed with him until other employees began to trickle in, and by half past noon, they nearly had a full house. They were still missing George and a few others, but he wasn’t too worried; he’d heard George come in late the night before, and figured he probably wouldn’t drag himself into the station until the last minute. Cameras wouldn’t go live until they started filming some of the upcoming week’s segments at two, but it was nice to hear people moving out and about, typing out a new script or whatever it was they got paid to do. They’d hired an entire new rotation of employees, a good chunk of which were people who wanted to see their shares in the station put to good use, and they had an entire team of high schoolers acting as interns, doing side work for some sort of class credit. Technically, he and George were supposed to give them assignments, grade them, the whole nine years, but if he was being honest with himself, unless one of the kids managed to break something that actually mattered, he’d give them all A’s and call it a day.

Life’s hard enough without some asshole in a tie trying to make it worse, he thought, watching one of them follow Stanley around as he mopped.

Everything had grown to become so much more professional since they’d started revamping the station; between the new employees, broadcasting gear, and business cards that said “Robert” instead of “Bob,” he finally began to feel like an adult.

The phone at the front of the office gave out a short, shrill ring, and Pamela answered. After a moment, she held the receiver away from her mouth. “It’s for you, Bob!”

“Coming,” he said, halfway out of his desk already. There were only two types of calls they got: serious calls that required either him or George, and Pamela’s social calls from friends who realized that, unless she was on their television, she was available to talk.

He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Robert Steckler, Channel 62.”

“I’m in hell, Bob.”

“George?”

Next to him, Pamela gave up any attempt she’d made at trying to look disinterested.

“Hell, Bob.” George repeated. He spoke slowly, as if he had to pull the words out of himself to say them loud enough to hear through the phone. “I’m in it.”

“What’s wrong?”

This time, Robert couldn’t hear the mumbled mess that came out of the speaker.

“What?”

“My glasses broke.” George sighed, loud enough to be heard over the speaker, and despite the situation, Robert fought back a grin at the dramatics.

“How’d that happen?”

“I didn’t put them in the drawer last night when I came in. Knocked them off the nightstand when I got out of bed since I didn’t remember they were there, and the second I put my foot down -”

Robert winced. “Crunch?”

“Crunch,” George echoed. “I just got off the phone with Visionworks. They’re doing a rush order for me ‘cause I might’ve mentioned I needed them for station work -”

“George -”

“which isn’t technically wrong, y’know, and they said the earliest they’d be in is Friday, so until then, I’m out of commission for anything that requires me behind the wheel of a car.”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten or so. You need me to help you down the stairs?”

A quiet chuckle came through the speaker. “I’m not your Grandma Ruth.”

“Yeah, but you’re both bordering on legally blind,” he replied, teasing, “so what’s the difference, really?”

“Just for that, I’m throwing myself down the stairs. Have fun running U-62 on your own, Bob.”

“I will,” he said, and hung up the phone. He reached over, grabbing his coat out from underneath Pamerla’s and sliding it on. “I’ll be back in about half an hour,” he said, looking at her. “Try not to let the power get to your head.”

“You’ll come back, and they’ll be feeding me grapes,” she said. She lifted her legs, crossing them at the ankles atop her desk and leaning back like a queen on her throne. “His glasses broke?”

“Shattered, from what he told me.”

Pamela clicked her tongue. “Damn,” she said. “No spares?”

“Nah, neither of us have that kind of cash.”

“Well,” she said, flicking through the Rolodex, “at least we know his address.”

“Of course I know his address,” Robert said, feeling through his pockets for his keys. “We live together, Pam.” He found the keys, kept on an old keychain his dad had given him when he first came back to Tulsa.

Behind him, Pamela gasped. “Oh,” she said, eyes wide. “Oh, I get it now!”

He whipped around, hands up in alarm. “Not like that!”

“He’s not -,” she asked, then stopped herself. “You two aren’t -?”

“I don’t think,” he said, lowering his voice, “that George knows that being gay is an option, much less, well.” He waved a hand at himself. “So please, Pam, don’t mention it in front of him.”

She mimed zipping her lips shut, throwing an invisible key in the small garbage can by her feet. “My lips are sealed.”

The fog had grown stronger during the hours he’d spent in the station, and Robert quickly learned that Pamela wasn’t lying when she’d said that visibility was zero to none. His car was barely more than a lump of blue-gray, even though he’d parked in the closest line of spots to the building that morning.

At least the roads were clear. The last of the lunch rush was still trickling back to their places of employment, but overall, the drive back home wasn’t too painful. He’d grown up around this type of weather in the winter, the days where you couldn’t see more than two feet in front of you followed by enough snow or ice to make it a hazard to anyone who didn’t know to look at the road when driving. Every year, car accidents littered the roads from December to mid-March, all because barely half of the town’s driving population consisted of Tulsa natives, and the other half was a combination of out-of-towners, the elderly, and teenagers that got their license that year.

The very first winter they’d lived together, he’d had to go rescue George from a ditch eight miles from the apartment at ten o’clock at night; he’d tried driving home from his girlfriend’s house and lost control when his wheel hit the ice. It was the same winter where the heat went out, and George’s uncle Harvey managed to save their asses both times. He’d paid for the repairs on the car, and “had a guy” who came out to fix the heating, not just for their apartment, but for the whole building, at no cost.

They’d met Kuni about a week later when he’d come by to give his thanks after he’d realized that the landlord hadn’t been the one to fix the heating, and he’d brought a Tupperware full of something his wife had made for them. Robert still didn’t know what it was; it’d been strawberries covered in some sort of soft, chewy coating that neither he nor George recognized. Whatever it was, though, was incredibly good, and after trying it, they had to count the individual pieces and divide them in half in order to make sure it was a fair split.

Whenever Kuni had a particularly loud class or a student who decided to try their luck punching through their walls, he brought the same dish over. It was partially apologetic, but mainly a “thank you for not reporting me to the landlord”-type gift, and with Harvey Bilchik’s various connections able to fix anything for free, neither young man ever even considered actually going legal with the various property damages they’d collected over the past four years.

He parallel parked in his spot on the street, leaving the key in the ignition to keep the car warm while he was gone as he left the car. He took the stairs two at a time, reaching the door quickly and opening it, knowing George would’ve left it unlocked.

At first glance, the apartment seemed empty. Both bedroom doors were shut, as was the bathroom, and the main room showed no signs of life. He stood still, not even breathing, and felt a small, irrational fear that someone had broken in and kidnapped his roommate creep into the back of his mind.

A small sigh coming from the couch gave him his second near-heart attack of the day.

Nearly camouflaged against the cushions sat George, hunched over with his head in his hands. If he’d worn anything else, he would’ve been visible, but the combination of the brown curls and light blue suit jacket made him a chameleon in their home.

The sheer unhappiness that radiated from his friend, combined with the MAD poster above his head reading “what - me worry?” made him have to fight back a laugh. “You ready to head out?”

On the couch, George sighed, purposefully loud, and lifted his head. He stared forwards as he spoke, not even turning to face Robert. “I think you might actually need to help me down the stairs.”

Robert could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen George without his glasses throughout the four and a half years he’d known him. He put them on first thing in the morning, and taking them off was the last thing he did before bed. Hell, he’s pretty sure he’s seen him leave the bathroom after a shower with them fogged up. The few times he’d seen him sans glasses were always temporary; despite the fact that he was a man in his twenties, he kept his glasses safer than his car, wallet, and comics collection combined.

“That bad?”

George turned his head, lifting his bangs to reveal a bright red line going from his right eyebrow to his hairline. “I, uh, missed the bathroom door. Met the frame instead; turns out she’s a real mean lady.”

Curious, Robert lifted his hand in a Girl Scouts salute that would make his little sister proud. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

George glared at him. “You’re evil,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Robert said, smiling. He held out his arm, palm facing the ceiling, the same way he’d always done for his grandma. “Come on, we’ve got about half an hour before the station burns down.”

“Fine,” George said. He reached out a hand, but instead of taking him by the elbow like Robert expected, took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “If you lead me off the stairs, I’m dragging you down with me.”

“Got it,” Robert replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt when the words came out.

He could feel the other man’s pulse, a slow thrum, through his fingers as he led them out the front door and slowly to the stairs, with George clasping the railing with his free hand the entire way down. It seemed as though the weather had grown even colder while he’d been inside, making him all the more aware of how warm his hand was with another wrapped around it.

Logistically, he knew it wasn’t anything, but he was human, and it had been nearly three years since he’d been in a relationship, let alone held hands with someone. The weight of it was comforting; it was solid and steady, only verging onto tight once they’d made it to the bottom few steps.

Thankfully, they made it down without any event, and Robert led them to his car, stopping at the passenger door. “Your carriage, ma’am.”

“Oh, you’re such a polite young man,” George said, finally cracking a smile. “If I’d known you were here to help, I’d have brought a dollar with me to tip you!”

“I’m just glad to be here for you in such a trying time.”

George took his hand away, opening the door and sinking into the seat. Still in the cold outside, Robert wasted no time in making his way to the driver’s side and climbing inside. He looped his arm around the back of the passenger seat, checking the street for cars behind him before pulling out onto the main road.

They made it out to the highway before either of them spoke.

“Can you still do the Town Talk segment tonight?” Robert asked. “”Cause if you need me to, I can do it.”

“I can deal with it,” George said. “I know how much you hate being in front of the camera.”

“I hate being in front of the camera as Bob-o the Clown,” Robert corrected. “I’m fine being on air as Robert.”

George shifted in his seat, looking over at him, or at least looking in his direction. “You’re really sticking with Robert, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Robert said, popping the ‘p.’ “Sounds more professional, which means the other channels take us seriously.” George snickered. “Only if they haven’t seen the shows we’ve greenlit.”

“Speaking of,” he said, turning onto the side road leading to the station, “we’ve got a new batch of proposals for spring. The people of Tulsa have spoken, and they want more insanity in the writer’s room.”

“Don’t tell me you read them without me.” George whined.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Just counted them. We’ve got about twenty, give or take.”

“And how many slots do we have open on the schedule for next spring?”

“Like, two.”

“Phenomenal.”

A little while later, they pulled into the station’s parking lot, and Robert was glad to see that no one had taken his spot while he’d been gone. He parked, taking the keys out of the ignition and slipping them into his pocket.

“You want my help again?” Robert asked.

“I think I’m good,” George said, “but thanks.”

“Alright,” he said, unconvinced. There were a few steps leading up to the door, and he didn’t want to see George eat concrete when he knew neither of them had dental insurance. They were still trying to get that all squared away, but the steps for registering a business with the various insurances wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, especially when neither of the bosses had ever had insurance to begin with.

They left the car, and Robert watched, wary, as George made his way to the front door, both hands splayed out in front of him. He followed close behind in case he managed to hit something and fall backwards, but to his pleasant surprise, neither of them hit the floor.

“Good afternoon, Stevie Wonder,” Pamela said, seeing them stumble through the door. “Had a nice drive?”

“If he’d driven, we’d be wrapped around a tree right now.”

“Very funny,” George said. He’d narrowed his eyes, but it wasn’t exactly clear if it was out of annoyance or if he was just squinting. “Make fun of the blind guy when he can’t see you well enough to punch back.”

“With your gangly limbs? Honey,” Pamela said, “I don’t think you’d manage to land a hit. Even if you could, you’re too sweet to hit a lady. It’s a mystery how no one’s snapped you up yet.”

He looked over at George, who stayed quiet, fiddling with the cuff of his suit jacket. “Someone has,” Robert said, perplexed at the silence. “His girlfriend, Teri Campbell. And before you ask,” he said, cutting Pamela off, “yes, like the soup.”

“Must’ve been born under a lucky star,” Pamela mused. “Rich girlfriend and a steady job at what, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-five,” Robert clarified, then paused. With the chaos of the first weeks at the station, he realized he’d never actually asked her, or anyone at the station, something as basic as an age. “Wait, how old are you?”

Pamela hummed, setting her pen down. “How old do you think I am?”

Robert laughed. “I’m not dumb enough to fall -”

“Twenty-seven,” George answered. He looked at the other two, who stared back at him. “Her birthday’s in April.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s on her paperwork, Bob.” George said, the way one would expect to hear “duh” tacked onto the end.

He cocked his head to the side, surprised. “You read that?”

George mimicked him, cocking his head to the other side. “You didn’t?”

“I’ve been meaning to get around to it,” he mumbled, feeling his face heat up.

“Stanley’s thirty-two,” George continued, pointing at the janitor as he swept the floor near Robert’s desk. “Raul is forty-four -, no,” he corrected, “sorry, forty-eight. Kuni’s fifty-one, and Philo never actually filled out his papers to begin with.”

“Is he allowed to do that?”

A loud BANG! rang out from the back room.

“I say we let him do what he wants, and in return, we get an on-site engineer who’s willing to host a show without extra pay.”

He eyed the back room’s doors, taking note of the odd green glow that shone from the porthole windows. “That’s fair,” he said.

Together, they made their way to their desks, sitting down just in time to avoid the crowd that pushed their way in seconds later.

The live studio audience had arrived, and they were loud, almost overwhelmingly so. They couldn’t wait to see the people they usually saw on small boxes in real life, excited to participate in the shows they watched with family and friends. Parents with children they’d pulled out of school for the day as an early Christmas present were shown by Pamela to the largest spare room-turned-sound stage, the one with yellow walls and bleachers to fit all those coming to spend a day at Stanley Spadowski’s Clubhouse. A smaller, noticeably older crowd, directed by the interns, were ushered to Town Talk’s half-living room set-up, all the way across the building.

The other shows filming — Secrets of the Universe, Raul’s Wild Kingdom, and You Bet Your Pink Slip — wouldn’t film until after the first two, and luckily required no such audience. Raul chose to film on-site at his apartment complex, Philo hated the idea of anyone in his lab space that didn’t explicitly have to be there, and Pink Slip was shot at whatever place of employment had someone willing to, as the show’s title suggested, bet their pink slip on something insane.

One of the interns, a short, dark-skinned girl that was one of the first to sign up for the job, rushed over, the rubber soles of her Converse slapping against the linoleum. “Mr. Newman?”

George glanced up at her. “What do you need, Gloria?”

“Mrs. Nichole wants you in make-up for your segment,” she said, rushing through the words. “She wants to try something new with your hair for the episode, and told me to tell you to,” she paused, focusing, “‘get your ass in the chair and don’t complain like you always do or she’ll shave your ‘stache next time.’” She grimaced, then added, “her words, not mine.”

“I’m not letting her put glitter on me again,” he muttered, standing up. He smoothed out the creases of his jacket, and straightened his tie. “I’m still picking pink flakes out of my sheets and it’s been a full month.”

“Last I saw, she had the eyeliner out,” Gloria said, “so I think you’re safe for today.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Gloria left, spinning on her heel so fast it could’ve left a burnout, running back to Nicole’s hair and makeup station, operating out of a converted bathroom they’d found when planning out the station’s space, once they’d realized what was on the horizon. George followed her lead, not wanting to incur the wrath of Nicole, especially if his hair was at-risk of retaliation.

“Hey, George?” Robert said.

George stopped, and looked back at him. “Yeah?”

“Break a leg.”

George smiled back at him. “You know I will.” He turned back around, not wanting to lose Gloria in the hallway.

A moment later, after Robert had gone back to sorting through the bills they’d received for the upcoming week, a quiet thump! could be heard to those who knew to expect it.

“I didn’t mean it literally,” Robert called out.

“Oh, go to hell, Bob.”

Seven o’clock came quicker than he’d expected; between paying the bills, fielding calls from Raul’s suppliers, then having to speak to one very confused, very new-to-town police officer who’d seen Raul unloading a komodo dragon out of a van, and placing Philo’s order of calcite, dolomite, glass squares, and a bottle of hydrochloric acid, he didn’t have the time to, well, check the time.

“You planning on going home soon?” Pamela asked, packing up her purse. Around them, the station was nearly deserted; the camera crew left to film the next segments at four-thirty and the interns left at five, leaving only a skeleton crew at Station U-62. George had locked himself in the writer’s room, saying he needed the quiet to think of the next week’s Town Talk. “News segment finally wrapped, so I’m out of here.”

“Yeah,” he said, packing the last of his papers away into his desk drawer, “just waiting for George.”

“Mhm,” she said. She grabbed her coat off the rack, slipping it on and zipping it tight. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends,” Robert replied. “Do you want to come closer and not shout it out?”

Pamela rolled her eyes as she made her way to his desk. “How long has George been dating that girl, Carrie?”

“Teri,” Robert corrected. “And, Christ, I don’t know. They’ve been on-and-off for as long as I’ve lived with him, why?”

“Just curious,” Pamela said. “How long have you two lived together?”

“Four years. Five this April, if that helps with whatever timeline you’re plotting out in your head.”

She pursed her lips. “Curious,” she repeated.

Robert sighed. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’s so curious about them?”

“They date for four, probably five years, and he still hasn’t popped the question?”

“With their breaks, they’ve probably only dated two years, to be honest.”

“And that! I mean,” she said, throwing a hand in the air, “if the guy I was with still didn’t know if he wanted to marry me after five years, even after seeing what life was like without me, I’d find myself someone who knew they wanted me.”

“Hey,” Robert interrupted, trying not to get upset, “he’s not leading her on, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. He’s a good guy, Pam.”

“I know, I know,” she reassured, “but it’s weird, right? I mean, is he breaking up with her every time they have a spat, or what?”

“I never said he was the one breaking up with her. In fact, every time they’ve broken up, Teri breaks up with him, and he doesn’t ever see a new girl. Ever. He just mopes around and waits for her to take him back.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Robert confirmed. “It’s kind of sad.”

“Has he ever dated another woman?”

“I don’t know, I’d have to check his diary,” Robert said, half-kidding. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out his roommate had an actual diary. “Why do you suddenly care about George’s dating life?”

“Well, since you’re off the table -”

If someone had thrown a bucket of gasoline and a lit match onto him, Robert still would’ve felt the cold creeping up his spine. “Pamela, you can’t -” “I’m kidding!” Pamela laughed. “Sheesh, I wish I had my camera!” She wiped a tear from the side of her eye, taking care not to smudge her mascara. “I’m just trying to learn a little more about my bosses today, is that a crime or something?”

“Go home before you send me into a stroke, Pam.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she said, gathering her purse under her arm. “Drive safe tonight, ‘kay? I don’t think the next managers will let me wear what I want on air like you two do.”

“I will,” he said, “and same to you; drive safe.”

She waved, then let herself out, closing the door quickly to keep any of the afternoon’s snow from floating in.

With his papers safe and secure, he locked his drawer and walked down the hall to the writer’s room. It was the one of the only rooms they used that was actually created for the purpose they used it for, though without an official writing team, it was rarely occupied. George tended to flit inside when he needed the quiet, and any staff who doubled as writers would go in and out in pairs depending on what they were working on.

He knocked on the door, three quick beats. When he didn’t get a response, he inched the door open. “George?”

The man in question sat at the long cherrywood table, one hand twirling a pen, the other lost in his curls. “What’s better,” he said, not looking up, “local grocery stores already stocking Valentine’s Day merchandise before the month’s over, or the movie theater’s highest grossing films for this year and what they say about the people of Tulsa?”

“Movie theaters,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “You ready to head home?”

At the table, George scratched “TULSA MOVIE THEATERS” in large, blocky handwriting, making the lines thick enough to see, even without his glasses. “Definitely,” he said.

He got up, but as he walked toward the door, Robert noticed something on his face. “You’ve still got eyeliner on,” he said, staring at his eyes.

“Got to chat with the local punk scene,” George said. “They’re a pretty nice bunch, once you stop gawking at them.”

“Good to know,” he said. “It -, uh, it suits you.”

“The eyeliner?” George asked. “I’d agree with you, but I couldn’t see it when Nicole did it. She nearly put me in a headlock though; apparently, I’m squirmy.” He made air quotes with his fingers around the last word.

“Pamela thinks you’re gangly, and Nicole calls you squirmy,” Robert said, tsk’ing. He opened the front door, holding it for George to exit first. “What does Teri say about you?”

“Bad things, probably,” he muttered, reaching for Robert’s car. He laid a hand on the hood, trailing his fingers on the metal as he found his way to the passenger door. It was quiet outside; Philo usually took care of the station’s graveyard shift, which let the rest of the crew go home at a semi-normal hour. There were only two other cars in the lot aside from his, and he knew one belonged to Stanley while the other was probably Philo’s, though he’d never actually seen the man leave the property line.

Robert came up behind him, unlocking the door, then went to his own side, quickly getting inside and turning on the ignition. He turned the wipers on, clearing out the light dusting of snow they’d accumulated during the day, then reversed, clearing out of the lot before the car had begun to warm up. He reached over, clicking on the radio, and for a few minutes, they drove in silence, only broken up by the soft sounds of Sinatra’s Christmas album.

They made it all the way to the main road before Robert’s concern won out. “Hey, is everything okay with you? Between the glasses and -,” he didn’t want to say “not mentioning your girlfriend to Pam” out loud, so he settled on, “your general demeanor, you’ve been really off today.”

George hunched deeper into the seat, shoulders ‘round his ears. “I’m fine,” he said.

From the driver’s seat, Robert felt his hands grip the wheel a bit tighter than they usually did. He was well-accustomed to George’s moods; he knew everything from the giddy delight he had when the newest issue of MAD came in the mail to the slightly self-destructive depressive tendencies that came with Teri calling it quits, but the quiet sadness, the quiet anything, was never a sign of something good to come. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” George said. He stared straight forwards into the empty night, deliberately avoiding Robert’s gaze. In all their years of living together, he knew George only did that when he was hiding something. He had a shit poker face, mainly because whenever he lied, as rare as it was, he did so while refusing to look at the person he was lying to.

Robert knew he wouldn’t talk about it on his own, but he’d wanted to give him the chance. Now was the time for him to take out the pliers and pull it out of him.

He decided to try for the most obvious cause first, then work his way down. “Is it about Teri?”

The thud of George’s head hitting the headrest told him he’d struck gold on his first try. “She wants me to spend Christmas with her family.”

“And that’s -?” Robert trailed off, waiting for George to fill in the gap.

“Not good,” he said. “It’s not bad, either, but I -,” he groaned, threading a hand into the tuft of hair that’d started hanging loose from the rest as months went by with no haircut, “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to go.”

“Well, why not?”

George scoffed. “Her family hates me, Bob,” he said, voice thick. “All they see me as is the guy that’s terrorized their only daughter for five years. One Christmas isn’t going to change that.”

“It could.” Robert turned off of the main road, pulling onto the side street they lived on. “People are weird about the holidays, especially people like Teri’s parents. They get all holy ‘bout it, wanting to forgive those who trespassed against them,” he said.

It surprised him; it’d been years since he’d said the Lord’s Prayer, but he still remembered it, at least partially.

“They’re going to want me to go to church with them, and I’m going to embarrass her, again, in front of her parents. I don’t know the words, or the customs, or -,” he spiraled, waving his hands as he spoke, “when to stand up and sit down, and I -”

“George, relax,” Robert said, keeping his voice calm. “Half of the entire Christian population only goes to church on Christmas, Easter, and for, like, funerals and weddings, if they go at all. You’re not going to be the only one there who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Teri’s parents are Catholic,” he said. “Not Christian, I think.”

“It’s basically the same thing.” He swung into his spot, and turned the car off. “Just mumble through the prayers, don’t take the wafer or wine, and you’re good to go.”

“I don’t think I’m even supposed to go into a church,” George mumbled.

“Why,” Robert asked, “afraid you’ll burst into flames?”

He knew it was stupid, but it got a laugh out of George, and that’s what he was aiming for.

“Very funny,” he said, monotone. He reached for the door handle as the car’s engine died.

Together, they left the car, standing in the cold. It was nearly pitch-black outside, save for the streetlights, which cast a warm amber glow onto the pavement below. A few patches of ice remained solid, mostly on the road, but a few scattered on the sidewalk, one of which was too close to George for Robert’s comfort.

“Hey,” he said, stepping over the ice to the other man. He held out a hand close enough for George to see. “Grab on.”

He expected some form of protest, whether it be outright refusal or stubbornness, with or without a comment mentioning how he was a grown man, but like that morning, he said nothing, just stretched his hand out, wrapping his fingers around Robert’s.

Carefully, he guided George up the stairs, taking his time after seeing more patches of ice hiding on the steps. He waited until the front door was open to let go, putting the hand that had held George’s against the small of his back instead, ushering him inside.

“You can get first shower,” Robert said. “If I make Kraft, do you want any?”

“Yeah, I’ll take some,” he said.

“Try not to slip and break your head open.”

Robert watched as George stretched out his arms, making sure he didn’t run into any door frames again, and kept his eyes on him until he saw the bathroom door shut. Satisfied with the knowledge he wouldn’t have to hunt around for the first aid kit, he reached up to the wire shelves, grabbing one of the twenty-odd remaining boxes of Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese he’d bought at Costco a few months back, and turned on the burner.

He’d just finished divvying up the pasta into two bowls when he heard the water turn off in the bathroom. He hunted around for a minute, searching through the drawers, then the dishwasher, until he came up with two clean forks, and set them in either bowl. He brought both bowls to the small hunk of wood they called a coffee table, sitting down on the couch and turning the television on.

“CBS is doing a M*A*S*H marathon!” Robert yelled. “You down?”

The bathroom door opened, and George shuffled out. From the corner of his eye, all Robert saw was a mass of light gray; after all the times he’d seen the other man do laundry, he knew that George had a tendency to buy his sweatpants and hoodies in matching colors, so seeing just one hue wasn’t out of character.

Robert patted the cushion next to his. “Come on, it’s dinner and a show.” He shoveled a forkful of macaroni into his mouth and cranked up the volume.

The couch groaned as George dropped down beside him. “Which ep’?”

He watched for a minute, trying to place it. “Think it’s the one where the guy gets the Dear John letter,” Robert said. “God, imagine how much that would suck. You’re fighting a war, the only thing keeping you together is knowing you’ve got someone to go home to, then -” he turned, looking over to George, and - “oh my God, George.”

“What?” George asked, confused.

He couldn’t help the snort of laughter that came out, but he tried to smother it as best as he could. “I’m sorry,” he said, chuckling. “I’m sorry, it’s just -, you look like a raccoon, dude. Did you use anything to remove the stuff Nicole put on?”

#again I am so thankful for how excited some of y'all are #it means the world to me as a writer to see that people actually want to read my stuff!!!#hope this is an alright condolence for everyone #uhf #weird al yankovic #sherrie's shit #and to clarify-george’s feelings re:terri are his own self deprecating thoughts.#terri does not actually hate him nor think badly of him #I have a grudge against fics that demonize female characters to make the m/m pairing happen and I am not about to do a 180 to write that ahi #shit* <- for the last tag

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